A Court of Starlight and Poppies
by TurtleSteed
Summary: Rhysand thought he would be forever trapped Under the Mountain, never again to see his home or his friends. But one night, he begins having strange visions in his sleep of a woman who is far away... My attempt at ACOTAR from Rhysand's POV. Rated M for safety and strong language. Now finished!
1. The Color Red

Hey, ya'll! My name is TurtleSteed and this is my first fanfiction. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope to continue with my writing as long as I enjoy it.

Please review, but also be kind and give me some constructive criticism.

The ACOTAR fandom is owned by the queen, S. J. Maas and I can only hope to ever be as excellent at writing as she is.

With that, please enjoy!

* * *

Rhysand loathed the color red. He hated the deep burgundy of the spiced wine drunk by the Queen's Court as she scowled over their heads. He hated the shimmering crimson that trimmed the outside of the rugs in front of her bronze throne. Rhysand even hated the cranberry sauce over the roasted duck, dripping over the dead bird as though mocking the clotted blood from a hunter's killing blow. But more than anything he hated the red of Amarantha's long, shining hair. Sometimes, he wondered if she realized how he hated the color. The red dripping from her tonight was to make him cringe, and he habitually added blocks to the adamant wall of his mind. Sometimes she was so perceptive, so cruel, that he wondered if she was the one who could slip into others minds like a thief in the night.

Perhaps hate was a strong word. But these days, hatred and loathing were words Rhysand could apply to any manner of things. For example, he hated the sneering faces of her court as they smirked and schemed. Rhysand wouldn't have been surprised to see a huddled group of hooded Fae, softly touching the tips of their fingers together as they sneered gleefully. So like countless plays of Velaris portraying the betrayers, the deceivers and thieves. So typically _evil_. But hatred was a very familiar feeling to Rhysand, as was loathing and fury. All varying degrees of what he felt toward Amarantha and her court.

He hated the cold of the mountain caves, the dark shadows of the hallways, and the fulsome dust that covered the stone-hewn floors. Rhysand however, coveted his hatred. Hatred and anger were so much easier to carry than such emotions as longing, and sadness. And certainly, much easier than the nauseating sort of happiness Rhysand received when he successfully convinced Amarantha into believing in his seductive smile and sweet lies. Pleasing Amarantha was something he both was revolted and relieved by. However, more than anything else, Rhysand enjoyed the silence in his mind when he was doing nothing. He did not long anymore, he did not hurt anymore, thinking of the friends and life that he had lost 49 years ago. Rhysand enjoyed the silence that filled his head when the burning hatred had long since been blown out, and when the revulsion of his actions left him. Silence was easy to hide, easy to cover with a provocative smile and darkness sweeping in his wake.

Rhysand stood to the right of the finely crafted bronze throne with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his deep blue eyes nearly watering from the atrocity of the red dress that was sitting a few feet to his left. Amarantha was in true form tonight, her long crimson hair styled neatly on top of her head in braids creating a platform for the mockery of a crown she wore a top her head. The bronze crown twisted to form sharp thorns with roses curled in between the tined thorns. The gown she wore was cut to hug her chest and waist and lined with golden flowers that did little to dim the bloody dress dripping from her body. Her nails were neatly painted gold, and they were currently toying with the bone hanging around her neck. Upon her other hand sat a chestnut eye inside an ostentatious ring, her skin pulled taunt as she tightly gripped the throne. The eye did not move, but instead stared straight ahead as though the spirit contained within was feeling as empty as Rhysand. Amarantha had her legs crossed, and her dark eyes stared out over the crowd from her dais. Her ruby lips were set into a grim smile as she examined her court spread out beneath her.

Amarantha's court was made of many faeries who lingered for power in the Courts of the High Lords. A few of Rhysand's own Court of Nightmares lingered around the room, their cruel faces providing no comfort to Rhysand. They had always enjoyed this type of atmosphere, full of captivity and suffering. Although they were his originally, they were no more loyal to him than they were to any of the other High Lords. The members of his court had hated Rhysand, so much that when Amarantha had taken power they abandoned Rhysand's Hewn City and joined her court without so much as a spiteful look back. Rhysand loathed them, so much more than they hated him, as they only hated him for the control that he had inflicted over them for so many years. Rhysand hated them wholeheartedly, for the cruel creatures they were that fed from fear and power. That first day that he had recognized a member of his own Court of Nightmare's in the Queen's Court, he promised to himself that he would make them pay for their truculence.

Members of the other courts of Prythian were sprinkled about the room as well, mingling with those they would not have dared before Amarantha's reign. The most merciless and sadistic of Prythian gathered in Amarantha's Court, most without invitation. However, some were summoned Under the Mountain tonight. Amarantha was celebrating her soon-to-be victory over Prythian. She always wanted an audience at a celebration. The rest of the High Lords had not been called in yet, so tonight only two High Lords attended to the throne of the Queen. Kallias lingered amongst a group of pale, light haired faeries. He had been summoned, an invitation without choice. Rhysand was the only High Lord to be trapped under the mountain by the queen, bound by his usefulness and her vengeance. Amarantha wanted him to experience because of his father's crimes against the Spring Court, her once allies. The rest of the High Lords were allowed to govern their lands, although their powers were a shadow of what they once were. Kallias was currently talking softly with the few members of his court, all of them looking very out of place. Rhysand thought he looked a bit like an ice block in the fireplace. His hair was cut short, a stark alabaster that seemed to shine from the flickering Fae lights that lined the ceiling above. His crystal blue eyes darted around the room nervously, but his body conveyed the quiet confidence of a winter storm.

Rhysand was feeling unusually irritable this evening, having spent much of the night before servicing Amarantha. The sweetness of a silent mind was impossible to savor this week due to her constant _neediness._ She was growing more and more restless as the deadline for the curse grew closer, making her more vicious than past times. Rhysand was doing his best to distract her, but he was wearing thin. His loathing was difficult to contain tonight. He was the one who had encouraged her to begin celebrating the undoubted victory with daily parties and feasts, if only to gain a lull from the constant clawing. Rhysand used his power to make her want him, crave him, so much that it was almost impossible for her to think of much else. While he was successful, her restlessness was driving him up the wall. Amarantha's vicious nature was the most difficult beast he had ever attempted to tame.

Tonight, was only day one of the celebration, signaling the beginning of the end of Prythian's hope and of Amarantha's true reign over this continent. Off-kilter music was being played by a group of previous members of his own court. Wine and overly rich food were being served to members of Amarantha's court under the mountain. Rhysand hated this atmosphere, as it reminded him so much of his own Court of Nightmares. He scanned the crowd with a small, cryptic smile plastered on his face. Rhysand had practiced this expression so many times that he could conjure it without more than a flicker of concentration. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood with his shoulders thrown back. As usual, he felt oddly light without his wings. Rhysand thought this would disappear with time, but he always felt like a shadow of himself without them. His night glittered behind him. All for the show.

Rhysand thought of his golden-haired cousin, and how she would loath this atmosphere. She could pretend to be cruel, just as Rhysand _was_ cruel in order to protect his true court, his true home. She would have hated every minute of it, but she would have enjoyed the jealous looks she strutted around the room in a stunning gown from his mother's beautiful collection. Even in rags, Morrigan would be so beautiful it would hurt. It was part of her skillset, a skillset she used to protect what she loved. Mor would always protect Velaris, protect the innocents of his court. She understood the cost, she had paid the cost. That was why she was his second in command. After their night of mocking smiles and blatant displays of power, she would have drunk an entire bottle of wine in one sitting and laughed until she cried. He could almost hear her voice drawn low to imitate Rhysand's tone, "Keir, how dare you look at my regal behind. Next time that you presume to look at my ass-cheeks I will mist you into the piss that you are!" She would wiggle her fingers menacingly, and then take another swig of wine.

Rhysand thought silently of his Illyrian warriors, his brothers in the sky. Cassian would be grinning menacingly out at the crowd at his side, all seven siphons gleaming as he crossed his arms. Cassian was always the fighter, the angry one. Although Cassian would deny it, he would enjoy this place. Cassian enjoyed a challenge, and to prove those who doubted him wrong. He would enjoy the show he put on, and secretly pray for a fight in which he could prove who he was. Afterward, he would be laughing at Mor's imitation of Rhysand and the moment he got Rhysand alone would accuse him of forgoing his training. Azriel on the other hand, would be leaning against a back-wall, unseen and ignored. His shadows would be curling around his shoulders, his clothing dark. His face would be blank, no smile. Just pure, silent maliciousness. Azriel, like Mor, would hate what this place represented. But, he would love the deep shadows in the corner of the throne room, the hallways. He would enjoy the way the shadows whispered to him about the movements of the court. And afterward, as Mor and Cassian drank he would be silently watching as he always did. Quietly loving both from his shadows.

Amren, the little drake, would not have even bothered to come. She would have stayed in Velaris, always hating having to wear a dress and pretend that she was not the otherworldly being that she was. However, if Rhysand asked her to come, she might have thought about it. And if she did come, she certainly would not be in this throne room. He suspected that she would be in the kitchens, gorging herself or perhaps in a quiet room off to the side with a young male with a long neck. Even Amarantha would be smart enough not to challenge Amren, the demon who could not be controlled. And afterwards, she would laugh the loudest at Mor's imitation of Rhysand, her ghostly eyes flashing as she tipped back a glass of blood.

As Rhysand thought of his Court of Dreams, he felt nothing. He had once longed for them, hoped to once again be reunited with them. But as he thought of them, he was again filled with silence. Such… nothingness. Never again would Rhysand see his friends, not as they remained in the Night Court to defend his people. Rhysand could no longer remember their faces, not fully. He could see only the bare bones, the gold of Mor's hair, the shimmering of Amren's eyes, the shadows of Azriel's face and Cassian's wide smirk. But it was like trying to remember how to put together a puzzle that was missing pieces. Parts of a whole that he could no longer visualize. It had been 49 years since Rhysand had seen the completed puzzle of his life. Since Amarantha had stolen these parts of him and replaced it with this nightmare. Rhysand swallowed hard, wondering if this silence was some signal of loss of his sanity. But he kept that mocking smile on his lips. He loosened some grip on his power, allowed tendrils of night to seep out around him. Just enough to remind those watching him exactly who he was. Rhysand, regardless of the curse Amarantha placed over him and the rest of the High lords, was still the most powerful male alive. That ever had been. Even with only glimmering remnants of his power, he could kill everyone in this throne room with a little more than half a though… except for one. The one that mattered.

"Rhysand," Amarantha crooned, placing both hands on both arms of her throne, golden nails gleaming. Rhysand half turned to her, and gracefully picked an invisible piece of lint off his tunic. The rest of the room had instantly gone quiet at the sound of her voice. Even the music has stopped.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" His voice sounded like silken sheets. Oh, how he hated her. But he became what she wanted, what she expected of him. Unyielding, cruel and utterly controlled by her.

"I am growing rather bored of this party, aren't you? Perhaps we can find a way to make it a bit more interesting." Amarantha showed her teeth in what Rhysand supposed was a smile, but to him it looked a bit more like a snarl than anything.

"Bring up Caren," she crowed to the Attor who was slithering around the crowd closest to her throne like the snake he was. Her smile widened even farther until she truly looked animalistic.

The Attor bowed and hissed, "As you wish, Your Majesty. Bring up the prisoner." He waved a scaled gray hand, and two faeries with silky black fur covering their bodies disappeared through the open archway in the back of the room. Rhysand felt as though a rock was sinking through his system, but before he could grasp this feeling it was gone.

The rest of the room started chattering again, the off-kilter music started up again while they waited for the faeries to return with the evening's entertainment.

Rhysand took his hands from his pockets and walked to a table on the north wall of the throne room, piled high with various appetizers and alcohol. Rhysand poured himself a glass of the disgustingly burgundy wine and took a long draw. He turned his back to the table, watching the dais in which Amarantha was seated as the party continued. "Good evening, Rhysand," an icy voice drawled from his right.

Kallias had poured himself a glass of sparkling champagne. He was wearing a pale gray tunic trimmed in silver, his bleached skin seeming at odds with the flickering Fae lights and stone walls. His white hair shimmered. Despite himself, Rhysand felt a cool wind and suppressed a shiver as Kallias silently approached his side.

"Hello Kallias. You know you can call me Rhys, only my enemies call me Rhysand." Rhysand smiled wide at him, showing his teeth. When no reply came, he downed the rest of his wine with a gulp. Rhysand could tell without entering his mind that he was wondering if Rhys was a friend or foe.

"It has been a while since you graced us with your frosty presence Under the Mountain. You wouldn't be avoiding us, would you?" Rhysand stared into the chilled gaze of Kallias, and brushed his mind against Kallias's glacier-like wall. Rhysand slipped in without Kallias so much as noticing and was surprised to find it so full of sadness and ravenous longing. However, Rhysand was not surprised to feel the fear that seeped through his mind, overriding any other emotion.

Rhysand did not like invading the mind of other High Lord's, but Amarantha had given him a direct order the night before. She had ordered Kallias to court, as she would be with many of the others over the next few months to test their loyalty. Rhysand could still the hear the hiss in his ear as she had rode him last night, "We are surrounded by such traitors, my pet. You will find them for me." Her voice was breathless and high, but he felt the pull of her power just the same. Her power did not control him, but the sharp dip in his own natural powers was enough. Still, the self-hatred at the betrayal of entering another's mind was not easy to curb.

 _Whore. How can he stomach it?_ Kallias thoughts were nearly screaming at him. _Her scent is all over him… and that red mark on his neck…_ Kallias disgust hit Rhysand like the cold wind above an Illyrian mountain camp.

"Of course not." Kallias left his face carefully blank and as a cold as a blizzard. "Samhain and Winter Solstice festivities have been keeping me busy. It is difficult to leave the Winter Court at this time. Surely you can understand that." Kallias was ever so articulate.

It was an underhanded comment. Nynsar was no secret from other courts, as many traveled to the Night Court to celebrate the beautiful spirits who traveled the night sky that night. And it was no secret that Rhysand had not been permitted to see Nynsar in the past 49 years. Samhain however, was a celebration of the end of harvest and beginning of Winter.

Kallias was attempting to freeze another layer onto the wall in his mind, not realizing Rhysand was already going through his memories. Rhysand tried to skip through the useless memories in his mind, attempting to find enough information to appease the queen. It was hard to ignore the white-haired female who coated Kallias's thoughts, although her face was shadowed as though Kallias had not seen her in a long time. Rhysand hated himself even more at this realization, and he hated the fact that Kallias was good, truly good. He wanted the best for his people and protected his court with a passion as such Rhysand had only loved his own.

"Understand that I can. Although, your presence has certainly been missed at court. One has to wonder if you had been distracted for other reasons." Rhysand said smoothly, but nearly stuttered on the last word of his sentence. Helion's handsome face, and Tarquin's sea foam eyes appeared in a memory from only a week ago. In an area that Rhysand recognized to be distinctly Summer Court. _Shit._

Rhysand didn't want to find anything important, just enough to get her off his tail. Perhaps a Winter Court spy in their midst. Or that Kallias was hiding some of his resources from her… but… _Foolish bastards. They should be trying to help Tamlin, not trying to create an army to defeat her._ Rhysand knew even if an army marched against her under the mountain it would mean little if they were all still controlled by her spell. Rhysand knew that against her complete control even an army wouldn't be enough. Not when she could bring them to their knees with a few thoughts. She was not as powerful as a High Lord, but she had enough her own power and control over theirs that they were hopeless against her.

Kallias didn't notice the change in Rhysand's voice, but his face was even paler than before. "Distracted only by the responsibility-," He was interrupted by hushing of the Queen's Court around them.

The crowd parted, and the two furry Fae stumbled in, gripping a dark-haired male between them. He was pale, with two swollen eyes and a split lip. Blood dripped down his face from a gash above his eyes. One of his delicately pointed ears was missing, leaving a gaping and bloody hole in the side of his head. However, when they threw him to the rug covered floor, he glared up at the bronze throne and the woman sitting on it with eyes like a green flame. His cloths were stained dark with a mixture of his own blood and filth, but his lips remained set in a firm, defiant line.

"Hello, Caren." Amarantha stood, and walked to the edge of the elevated platform, looking down at the Fae male with an almost gleeful look in her eye.

The court underneath the mountain was quiet, the only sound the shuffling of feet as people tried to get a closer look. "They tell me that you still have not told my servants what you were doing creeping around my court all those years ago. That's a shame. Rhysand tells me that you have ability to transform parts of your body. Even in Tamlin's court, that is a rare gift." Caren did not move his gaze from her face, the hatred seeping out of his eyes in almost palpable waves.

"Shame." Amarantha said again. "Are you sure there is nothing you want to say? Now is your chance. Perhaps if you speak up now, we could find a use for you in my court." Her dark eyes pierced down on his. Her hands were like claws at her side. Her head was cocked to the side. Jurian's eye whirled to look at the young male.

Caren remained silent, unyielding, and eyes like a green flame continued to burn. It was impressive really, that he could keep his eyes open that long when she was wearing that hideous dress, Rhysand thought to himself bitterly.

Amaranth clucked her tongue, "Tsk, tsk. Again, what a shame." She lifted her eyes from the filthy male to Rhysand, standing loosely at Kallias's side. "Come, Rhysand."

Rhysand sauntered toward, a small smile painted on his lips. _Unyielding. Cruel._ "When you get what I need, kill him. He has wasted enough of my prison space." Amarantha hissed cruelly before returning to her throne, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. Caren's defiant gaze slipped to Rhysand's. While his gaze remained unchanged, as hateful as it was when looking at the Red Queen, Rhysand felt a tremble of fear glimmering from his mind. He could smell the sour tinge of it in the air.

He slipped a hand back in his pocket, in part to keep the crowd from seeing the shaking of his free hand. Rhysand slipped into Caren's mind, seizing complete and utter control, his bare hand curling into a fist. Caren breathed only when Rhysand wanted him to breath. His blood flowed only where Rhysand wanted it. His muscles relaxed involuntarily, even as his fear amplified to an almost unbearable level. Despite the roaring silence in Rhysand's own head, his stomach turned.

In Caren's mind, Rhysand's velvet thoughts whispered, " _I am sorry. I am sorry for what she did to you. I am sorry that I can't save you from it."_ Rhysand made his face stay in a cold, amused mask as he thought these things.

Caren thought back desperately, " _Why? Why do you serve her then?"_ Caren was angry, so very angry. Caren was forced to his knees by Rhysand's power, and his throat curved back to expose his neck, mouth open and eyes still full of terror. All part of the show.

Rhysand began to shift through his mind gently, looking for information on what Tamlin was doing. " _I serve her to save my court. And to distract her from others, as they attempt to break the curse."_ Only to dead men would he ever allow to know these things, to see the truth glimmering from these thoughts like pearls.

Caren had served Tamlin's court as a lord for many years, Rhysand could see Tamlin's long hair and young face from the Spring Court's dining hall. And, as Rhysand looked through his memories, soft as butter as Caren gave himself full over to Rhysand's control, he saw the moment Tamlin asked him to spy for him. Tamlin now had a face slightly lined with strain, and the mask he was cursed to forever wear. But, despite the risk, and no matter the cost, Tamlin asked him to spy on Amarantha. To look through Amarantha's court, trying to find a way in, or to get people out without her notice. What foolishness. He saw the moment that Caren had been pinned beneath one of the clawed members of Amarantha's court. Rhysand watched as Caren desperate tried to transform himself to escape, making his wrists small enough to slide through the links, or large enough to break them. Despite his ability to break from the chains, Caren could never make it past the door. Rhysand watched from the corner of Caren's memory as he was whipped, questioned, and whipped again.

" _Why would you risk it? What is he trying to do?"_ Rhysand asked desperately. He was aware of the eyes surrounding him, glued to him and the male.

Caren laughed silently in his mind. " _What wouldn't he try to save? Tamlin has made no progress all these years on breaking this curse… after so many years of his friends dying around him, being killed by humans across the wall, he has given up. His only hope is to help others escape. To protect those who can be protected and get those outside of her control out."_ As Rhysand heard these thoughts, he felt something slip out from under his feet. Rhysand had thought all his hope was gone, having long stopped dreaming of being free… but hearing that Tamlin had made no progress on breaking the curse…

" _Tamlin is a fool. There is no escape from Amarantha. There is only death, and suffering."_ Even to Rhysand, his thoughts felt empty.

" _If there is no escape, no hope, then please. Let this be over. End this."_ Caren's thoughts, although sad were not afraid. His mind was calm, like the sea with no wind.

Rhysand felt nothing. There was a roaring in his ears. _"Please…"_ Caren thought. And Rhysand knew he felt Rhysand gathering his power.

" _Cauldron save me. Mother hold me. Guide me to you…"_ Caren was praying in his mind.

Rhysand's own thoughts joined his, " _Let him pass through the gates, let him smell the immortal land of milk and honey…"_ with a small twitch of his fingers, Rhysand took away his ability to feel pain.

And then, he closed his fist.

Caren's thoughts blew out like a candle, and Rhysand was thrown back into his own mind. As Rhysand released his power, Caren's corpse fell to the floor. His eyes were open in a shocked expression that Rhysand had painted on for him, his hands awkward folded under his body as he fell forward off of his knees. The blood around his ear, dripping down his face was blindingly red.

Around him, silence reigned. Kallias had cold waves seeping from him, but Rhysand could only hear his own heartbeat. Rhysand smiled cruelly up at Amarantha, the perfect dog that she wanted him to be. _Woof, woof._ Rhysand thought dully to himself.

"It seems that Caren was sent here to look for a way into your court, Majesty. It seems that Tamlin was hoping to find allies," Rhysand said with a smirk. He slipped both hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.

Cruel laughter echoed from members of the court around him, although notably not from Kallias. Amarantha's dark eyes looked down on Rhysand, the red of her lips pursing into a sharp line.

"He is a fool, if he thinks there are any allies for him here," she placed a groomed hand under her sharp chin, leaning her elbow on the arm of her throne. Rhysand, despite the fortress that held her mind, could feel the tinge of anger and hurt seeping from behind her walls. He knew it bothered her endlessly that Tamlin did not want her, even if he loathed her.

"You may do as you wish," she waved him away. She did not like to look at Rhysand when she was thinking of Tamlin's betrayal. "Kallias," Amarantha instead crooned.

Swallowing back his own self-loathing, he bowed as she dismissed him. He turned and swaggered through the parting crowd, allowing a star-kissed night to follow in his wake. " _Cauldron save me… Mother hold me… Guide me to you…"_ He thought quietly to himself, wondering if he would burst into flames as some heathen. Because, while he was full of hatred, both towards himself and Amarantha he felt a glimmer of pleasure as well. He felt _glad_ to have killed Caren. He felt _glad_ to be able to investigate minds and see the absolute truth. Rhysand felt glad to please her by giving her information…. Because if she was pleased with him, it kept her attention away from the Night Court. Away from his Court of Dreamers, from Velaris and his blameless people. The skin on his knees itched. For the weight of that promise was immense. Only for his court he would bow. And if his court needed him to bow, to kill, to spy, to _fuck_ Amarantha he would, repeatedly.

As he walked to the back of the room towards escape, thoughts and quiet words were hissed at him, from those who both hated him and were jealous of him. _Whore. Amarantha's whore._ And for his court, he would be her whore. Always.

Entering the hallway through the arched doorway, he casually headed towards his private quarters, so nearby Amarantha's own. He waved a casual hand, unlocking and opening the door with that wave. With another wave, Rhysand closed the door. In a swift movement, he laid down on his large mahogany bed. He lay on his side, staring at the fading fire in his hearth. A fire so similar to the fire in Caren's eyes. After a minute, he rolled on his back and pressed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Fiery green eyes burned behind his lids. And in his ears, he still heard their whispers… _Whore._

* * *

Rhysand knew he was dreaming. His perspective was too small, and too blurry to be more than a dream. It was like seeing through someone else's eyes, blurry and colors slightly different. In his dream he was watching a hand paint on a table. It was an old oak table, its edges smudged with use and an uneven stain. Across the edges of the table were beautifully painted poppies. Painting these flowers, a small, feminine hand was holding a paintbrush. The paintbrush was obviously often used, some of the soft brush hairs sticking out jaggedly with use. The wood of the paintbrush was stained with multiple colors, a painting in itself. The hand holding the brush had shorter fingers than his own, short enough that while he watched the hand create a flowing vine of poppies from green paint, he realized it must be human. The nails on this hand while pink, were jagged and had a smearing of dirt underneath the tips. The hand was thin, as if the person who was painting with him didn't have enough to eat, but still had such a graceful dexterity to it. The painted poppies were a soft glowing red, pretty, and small. Like little flowering embers.

As he watched, he longed for home, for Velaris. He longed as he had not longed for such a long time. Velaris, full of art, freedom and a beautiful sky. He longed to fly without fear of someone seeing him. The night sky above Velaris, with thousands of stars overhead was something he hadn't seen in 49 years. His wings hadn't carried his weight in just as long. Rhysand felt so light without them. The sky outside of his court he had only seen twice since his imprisonment, only felt the kiss of the wind against his face enough times to count on one hand. And so, as he watched this beautiful human hand, he sent a message to her, through this dream, hoping that the owner would be able to see what she should paint next. This thought was of an open night sky, shining stars and a full moon overhead. Perfect flying weather. The hand, not seeming to understand, continued to paint poppies.

Rhysand rose to consciousness slowly, realizing his disturbance was from Amarantha, red hair gleaming behind her as she rolled over in her sleep. He groaned quietly, hating sleeping in the same bed as this woman, and attempted to close his eyes again. To bring back the dream. The dream did not return to him.

He took a deep breath, and sat up on the side of the bed, placing his tired eyes in his hands. A hand, a painter, a human. What a strange dream. _What if it is a vision? What if all of these strange dreams were visions?_ He rubbed his eyes. Over the past few months, he had been having dreams like this one.

It had started at glimpses, always while he was sleeping, but unlike his usual dreams he remembered every detail of them and these were… cloudy. Foggy almost. And his mind always woke up feeling tired. It was like seeing through someone else's eyes, like his consciousness was roaming the lands while he slept in order to find some reprieve.

The glimpses, were always different. The first time he saw a hearth with a crackling fire in a darkened house. A bale of hay in a barn, yellow and beautiful in its own way. A group of rabbits, huddled together in the cold. An axe, chopping wood in early morning light. It never made much sense to him, but this was the first time he saw hands, body parts or any hint of who owned the eyes he was looking through in these dreams. _Visions._ He reminded himself. Rhysand rose, walking to the bathroom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom as he filled a basin for a morning wash.

Pale. So terribly pale, paler than he had ever been. His eyes, still a deep violet was sunken in, making him appear almost gaunt. While, still strong, his body was not as lithe as before his imprisonment. Rhysand exercised, but without warriors to push him and for fear of Amarantha thinking he was training for a reason, he was careful. Rhysand wondered if he would be strong enough to even fly if he… no he would not think those thoughts.

Rhysand, after warming a bath, climbed in and sunk in until only his nose stuck out of the water. Oh, how he wished he could release his wings, spread them out and let them enjoy the warm water. But no. Amarantha, or any of the Queen's Court will never see his wings.

This woman… who painted the flowers. His thoughts gravitated back to her. She must be sending him these visions somehow. Or perhaps, he was subconsciously seeking her out. _But why?_ That fog he has to look through, that must be the wall. Rhysand would bet on it. Perhaps this woman he is seeing, he is seeing for a reason. Maybe not just to find reprieve from his miserable existence, but perhaps something else.

For whatever reason, he was grateful. Grateful that the Cauldron had blessed him with the ability to see this woman who had enough safety to paint flowers on a table. Someone, somewhere had enough light, enough freedom be able to mindlessly paint. And that thought alone was enough to get through today. Inside, Rhysand felt not silence but… something. Something small, growing inside of him. He smiled to himself as he bathed.

Rhysand smiled to himself as he scrubbed down a leg. _Poppies._ And suddenly, he found that he did not mind red as much as he thought he did.

* * *

Thank you. Chapter 2 is already written and in the process of being cleaned up for posting. Please review!


	2. When the Stars Met the Night

Hey guys. Chapter 2 is here, and I'm so pleased with it! Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays to you!

Please, review. Let me know what you liked, what you would like to see, and what I could do better! Thanks!

-TurtleSteed

* * *

Rhysand was watching a grove of trees, and a high, feminine voice was muttering, "Shit. _Shit."_ The grove of trees was impossibly tall, dark and menacing. They seemed to lean over Rhysand, touching his arms with reaching branches. Wait… not _his arms._ Rhysand looked down, and was shocked to see feminine hands, tall, tan legs and the skirts of a sunset pink dress. _Great. I'm a woman now._ Rhysand tried to laugh but this body did not respond to him. _Must be another vision_. Rhysand realized that _he_ was not the one who was looking down at her feet. The woman from his dreams was looking at her bare toes that were currently being trapped by reaching vines. He could feel her terror, hear her voice in her dreams, her _thoughts_. Her voice, was strong, a little raspy. Her same beautiful hands, although her fingernails were in better shape than when he had last seen them. They were now clean and well groomed, and her hands were not as thin as before. Like she had eaten a few meals that were enough to sustain her.

Silence spread through the forest, and the vines stopped trapping her feet, the branches stopped brushing their reaching claws against her arms. This calm… it was unnatural. Powerful. Rhysand recognized it as a creature know in Prythian as the Bogge, a powerful creature from a time before High Lords ruled Prythian. In this woman's ears he heard a hissing voice whisper, _I will feast on your flesh… I am what you fear…_ but even as Rhysand began to worry that perhaps this was not some dream, that this was some type of vision of a terror this woman was experiencing in real life, she surprised him. She did not knowledge, did not move, but forced their eyes straight, staring at a strange golden branch in the trees. Unblinking, unthinking, the only way Rhysand could still feel her was through the fear the permeated her mind. Suddenly, the trees disappeared, replaced with a dark field, soft grass beneath their feet and fog surrounding them from all sides. Lurking shadows surrounded them. Then, before them a giant mirror appeared. It didn't have any edges, it was a simple, impossible slab of reflective material. And Rhysand saw her.

She was human, Rhysand was quite sure of that. But breathtakingly beautiful. As Rhysand smeared his eyes, _her eyes_ , over her face he felt something stir from somewhere deep within him. Something unfamiliar, not a feeling, but something _more._ A strange connection to this beautiful mortal woman. She hardly could be past her yearly twenties in human years, but her face had lost much of the roundness that teenaged humans have. She was fairly tall for a woman, perhaps only a few inches shorter than Rhysand himself. Her shoulders were slender, as where her hips, but her arms and legs were powerfully built for a human woman. Like she had spent enough time outside pulling a bow, or chopping wood. Her skin was darker than Rhysand remembered her hands being, tanned from the sun. It brought out soft speckled freckles across her pert nose and high cheekbones. But her mouth… her mouth was soft, lips pretty in pink despite the small circle they formed as they poised in surprise. Her hair fell in long golden-brown waves past her shoulders, small curls at the end, and the crown of her hair was pulled away in a long braid that allowed Rhsyand to see her rounded ears. But what paused Rhysand's questioning thoughts was her eyes… they were a piercing gray-blue. They glowed in the pale light, like starlight.

Her eyes had narrowed in on her neck, where a blade was pressing tightly against the supple skin, drawing a small red line. Behind her was a faceless female. She was tall, with dark hair, and no visible face. The only features Rhysand could make out were long, Fae fingers gripping the blade at this woman's throat. Delicately pointed ears that poked through the waved dark hair. "Please…" the mortal woman begged, closing her eyes tightly as the woman dug her knife into her neck and…

Rhysand was thrown out of the dream. He awoke with a start, his heart nearly pounding through his chest. His chest heaved with his breathing. When he went to cover his face with his hands, he recognized his own beastly claws and tried to shake them out and tried to slow his breathing. He could still _smell_ her, as if she had really been here, her scent floral like… _lilacs._ And something sweeter. _Pear?_

This vision was so much clearer than any that he had seen before. And he saw her… this woman. The same hands, same beautiful hands that he had seen before. Who was she? And why was she dreaming of the Bogge? And who was this strange, faceless woman holding the knife? Amarantha stirred, making a small noise in her sleep and Rhysand scowled as he realized that he was still in her bed. He silently praised the Cauldron for the fact she was a deep sleeper.

He swiftly slipped out of the bed, snapped his fingers and was dressed in his usual black tunic. He took a steadying breath as he slipped into the hallway, heading toward his own quarters down the hall. Caundron did he need a _drink._ Waving his hand lazily, the door unlatched and he glared at the lesser Fae creeping about his room. "Didn't find anything to report, did you? Shame. Perhaps its time for you to leave." This occurrence was nothing new to him.

The scaled Fae didn't reply but simply bowed and hurried out the door. "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out." Rhysand muttered and with a wave of his hand, slammed the door with a blast of dark power. He settled on the chair near the hearth, putting his feet up on a nearby table. A decanter of a Winter Court whiskey floated his way, and he didn't bother to float over a glass before taking a deep swig, letting the burn settle down deep into his belly.

He placed the decanter on the arm rail, swirling it absent mindedly. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen easily, human or not. But who was she? Why did Rhysand keep seeing her? And why was it so clear this time? Rhysand took another deep swig while he thought on it. And he couldn't speak to her in his vision, although he could hear her thoughts, her voice, he was still trapped inside of her. Seeing through her eyes, feeling what she felt, hearing what she heard. This was so different to how he viewed memories when he invaded a mind. It was if she had invited him in, not as if he had let himself in. And this woman… why was she dreaming of the Bogge? The Bogge was a creature belonging to every court, and at the same time, no court. It simply was, existing both in and outside of this realm. How could she possibly know about it? How could she have seen something that only existed in Prythian? The Bogge would never be allowed to leave Prythian.

How could she be seeing the Fae? _Unless she was here. In Prythian._ Rhysand stared into the fire, letting the light burn holes in his corneas. The vision was clearer, almost like the interference the wall created was gone. Could she have crossed the wall? And what if she could see his dreams, his life through visions as he could see hers? What if she knew, she understood this part of his life the way no one else ever could?

Rhysand sighed, sitting up and placing the decanter on a nearby table. He placed his head in his hands, closing his eyes. _Who was she? Why was she in Prythian?_ He took a deep breath, his senses still filled with her sweet scent. _Why?_

* * *

Amarantha was growing anxious. Every night, as she rode him, her head thrown back in pleasure she would dig her nails deeply into his shoulders and as she met her release call another's name. _Tamlin._

Rhysand hated her, he hated touching her, he hated what she had done to his people. Every night he thought of how he would kill her as she screamed out Tamlin's name. When he was not thinking of creative ways to kill Amarantha, such as choking her with her own scarlet hair, he was thinking of that woman with eyes like a starry sky.

Amarantha required more and more servicing as she became obsessed with Tamlin in a way she hadn't been in so long. So Rhysand had lots of time to think. Rhysand had been doing this so long that while his dark power swirled around their joining, making her want it, crave _him,_ Rhysand did not have to think about his power. While he fucked her, while she was thinking of another… so was he.

Rhysand found that this mortal woman was impossible to forget. While awake, he smelled her, thought he saw golden-brown hair dipping around a corner. He would rush ahead only to find an empty corridor. Rhysand wondered if he was losing his mind. Every night that he slept was met with another vision. Sometimes, the visions were short, sometimes they were long, but they are always horrible. Faeries of all types, all courts, haunted her dreams. Her screams were heartbreaking, often fracturing in her sleep, sometimes silent but he could still hear the screams in her head. Every night as he fell asleep he hoped to find something, anything that would show him where she was. Who she was. The fog that once made these visions less real was gone, Rhysand assumed wiped away without the barrier of the wall.

Rhysand would wake up with her scent so far up his nose that he would smell her lilac and pear scent for hours. He couldn't walk, couldn't eat, couldn't exist without thinking about her. Seeing her starlight eyes. Even as Amarantha rode him, his mind as alternating between blinding hatred and… ravenous longing. Between fantasizing about killing Amarantha and seeing the woman of his dreams.

When they were done that night, Amarantha rolled off him, smiling her cruel smile and licking his blood from her nails. She had always liked to inflict pain as she found pleasure. He as usual, cleaned himself off with a wave of a hand, and was instantly dressed again. Rhysand was not a fan of vulnerability. He strolled over to the bar nearby the fire and poured himself a glass of wine. He didn't bother to pour one for her. She would not drink or eat without someone first testing her food for poison, and she did not trust him. Even now. _Smart choice,_ Rhysand thought to himself.

"Have you found any evidence of traitors in our midst, Rhysand?" Even in the bedroom, she did not call him Rhys. He certainly did not mind. Rhysand was not lying to Kallias when he said only his enemies called him Rhysand. Amarantha was now wearing a black silk robe and brushing her hair out with her sharp fingers. Her dark eyes pinned him down.

"I suspect that Kallias may be developing a plan to gather forces against you. I saw evidence of training within the Winter Court, but did not get to see the extent of his army." Rhysand felt nothing as he betrayed another High Lord. He might feel self-hatred at this betrayal later, but he regretted nothing. It was a game of lies and power, and while Amarantha was a Queen of Deception, Rhysand was a King of Lies.

"Hmm… you are good to me, Rhysand." She smiled, stood and ran her fingers down his sheathed chest. Her sharp nail cut through his shirt. "Although I wonder why you waited so long to tell me of his plans." Her fingers dug into his chest, drawing blood. It had been some time since his visit, and Rhysand had not so much as spoke a word about him.

"It must have slipped my mind. Kallias is not a particularly good commander. I did not see it as much of a threat. Not compared to your great power, Your Majesty." Rhysand purred, the lies sliding easily from his lips. He grabbed her hand from his chest and pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose. He subtlety held his breath. Rhysand could never stand her spiced scent.

"I want you constantly searching, Rhysand. Perhaps we should see what our little friend in the Spring Court is doing… and it has been far too long since I have seen our dear friends Helion and Tarquin…" Her breath was hot and heavy. She trailed off as Rhysand slid his tongue down her neck, wishing he could spit her taste from his mouth.

"Not tonight. I want you all to myself." Rhysand said into her neck, praying that she would give into his distraction.

After a moment of silence, "Very well. I will send them a summons for tomorrow night. Be on your best behavior, my dear. I shall need your gifts." Amarantha sighed as Rhysand slipped the robe off her shoulder, kissing down her shoulder.

 _I hope neither of them have done anything foolish_ , Rhysand thought to himself. _Like insult a woman who controls all our power… here's looking to you Tamlin._ But Rhysand had to admit, Tamlin was the only hope they had left.

* * *

Rhysand was standing on top of hill. Or really, _she_ was standing on top of a hill. The mortal woman was examining the grass underneath her feet with some wonder, wiggling her toes as if she couldn't believe how soft it was. Her feet were small and bare. Her legs were still tan and well-toned. Her scent was as strong as ever, smelling of lilac and pear, but he could also smell the sweet spring grass, flowers in full bloom and the sun overhead. She looked up from her feet and he realized that he knew where they were. Rhysand wanted to grin, wanted to jump for joy. _Spring Court_. He had been on these hills, for Fire Night or to taunt Tamlin. Before… everything happened, him and Tamlin had sparred on these fields, leaving a line of destruction in their wake. Warning signs of future High Lords coming into their power. Green hills surrounded them, but in the trough of those green hills sat a woodpile. Rather, several woodpiles. And amongst those woodpiles, a green hill banked into a cave. The mortal woman sat down on the grass, staring longingly at the scene.

As Rhysand recognized these hills, those bonfires, he did a quick calculation in his mind. It was almost Calanmai, a celebration Rhysand had not attended in years. It had always been a bit too faerie for him, a bit too mythical and strange. Rhysand had only ever attended as a young male, before he was crowned, before his mother and sister's deaths. When all Cassian, Azriel and him had wanted to do was train, drink and fuck. Rhysand had taken some joy out of tormenting Tamlin with his presence. It had been hundreds of years since Rhysand had seen these bonfires, and yet he recognized them just the same. As a High Lord he had been forced to participate in his own Rite, but his attendance in the Spring Court was not required or appreciated.

Tables were scattered at the edge of the woods, far from the cave. They were not yet piled high with sweet wine and fruit, as they would be after The Great Rite was completed. The wood piles were smaller than in Rhysand's memory, but perhaps they were still being built. As Rhysand took in his surroundings he could feel the human, her comfort and wants. She desperately wanted to attend Fire Night. She enjoyed the warm, soft grass beneath her feet and the feeling of the sun-kissed wind in her hair. Rhysand was surprised to find that he felt… angry that she wanted to attend Calanmai. Fire Night was a night for lovers. But, despite his anger, it was hard to ignore the way her sweet sent mixed with the Spring air. He enjoyed the raw presence of her, the feeling of her thoughts, her mind. And as Rhysand savored the vision, it began to fade.

As the vision of the spring hills faded in the black, he awoke from his chair in his private quarters. The book he had been reading was laying on the floor before his feet. It was unlike him to fall asleep during the day, and Rhysand blinked slowly, trying to return to his reality. One that didn't smell of Springtime flowers. These visions had never hit him while he was awake before, only when he had assumed that they were both sleeping. And what if this vision wasn't her dreams, but perhaps reality? But Rhysand knew one thing for sure. The woman with starlight eyes was at Spring Court. Watching preparations for Calanmai. He did the internal math… the day after tomorrow. That was Fire Night.

And he knew what he had to do.

* * *

"Hello Tarquin." Rhysand smiled, sipping from his wine. Tarquin was that evenings summon and entertainment. Amarantha found him amusing as he was a relatively new High Lord, a direct result from her reign. At only seventy-five years old, Tarquin was practically a baby at these courts.

It really was a shame. Rhysand like Tarquin, he seemed to have fresh ideas. But by the cauldron, he did not know how to play this game.

Tarquin looked over him with seafoam eyes, no trace a smile on his face. Rhysand could practically feel the wine glass standing at attention at his presence. "Hello Rhysand. It is nice to see you." _Liar._

Rhysand slipped quietly behind Tarquin's defenses, searching quickly through recent memories for something to tell Amarantha. Again, he saw Kallias's pale face, and Helion's handsome one. _Fools. All of them._ Rhysand almost wanted to slap them for playing such a foolish game with their courts.

"Indeed. Enjoy the festivities." Rhysand tipped his head forward and moved on through the crowd.

Chatting with Tarquin was not on tonight's agenda, and he was only obligated to search for traitors. Not to pretend to be friends with a baby High Lord.

He flicked an invisible piece of lint off of his black tunic, and strolled to his place at Amarantha's right side. She stood from her throne at his approach, suddenly uninterested in the festivities. Unusual for her. _Restless._ With a look over Rhysand with those dark eyes, and the sway of her red hair he knew he was to follow. As they approached the hallway, she hissed to him, "Well?"

"Tarquin is involved with Kallias's schemes. I am unsure if anyone else is involved, but it still looks as though they have gathered forces against you." Rhysand said quietly, his face and soul utterly blank. He had to fuel the fire… but not too much. Enough that she would allow him to investigate further.

Amarantha curled her hands into fist, and bared her teeth in a very Fae, very ugly snarl. "Fools! To think that they could try to force me out!" She turned to make a move for the throne room.

"Wait." Rhysand grabbed her arm and instantly dropped it as she glared at him with those demon eyes. "It would be unwise to act now. We are not sure if any others are involved in this betrayal. Besides, it would be all for not if Tamlin breaks the curse. We need to be tactful, attacking where it matters most. This could be meant as a distraction." He spoke quickly, trying not to seem too pushy. _Come on, Deceiver. Take the bait._

"And what would you suggest then, Rhysand?" She hissed, teeth still bared.

"Wait. Invite some of the others, let me look into their minds. We can attempt to draw out any of the traitors. And I should go to Calanmai." Amarantha closed her mouth, putting her teeth away.

"Why?"

"To spy on Tamlin. To ensure that he is no closer at breaking the curse than he was since we last saw him, and to see if anyone shows up to conspire against us." Rhysand wanted to get on his hands and knees to beg her. He needed her permission to leave, or he would find the spell sapping his power until he came back to her. _Please. Let me go to Calanmai. Let me go to her._ Rhysand hadn't wanted anything for so long, and if she did not allow it…

Amarantha stared at him. Her dark eyes were like bottomless pits, full of violence and mistrust. Rhysand wondered if perhaps he had made it too good for her, that she might not want to share her _pet,_ even if it would be useful to her. After a moment of silence, she said, "Then go to Calanmai. Bring back any traitors." Her smile promised violence.

"I will." Rhysand tried not to look as relieved as he felt as he bowed and kissed her hand. The one with Jurian's eye on it. His smile as he straightened was not fake.

And with some blessing from the Cauldron, Rhysand was going to Calanmai. His chest twisted with some strange emotion. _Hope._ Rhysand realized with a start. For the first time in a long time. When he walked down the hall to his quarters, his steps felt lighter than they had in years.

* * *

Rhysand was nervous. Actually nervous, a feeling he hadn't felt in years. Nothing was the most common emotion these days, rage a close second. Fear a short third, longing a rarity. But nervousness, he had never felt nervous when he served Amarantha. Only rage. Rhysand knew he was an excellent liar, his training preparing him well. But today, as he stared at his reflection in his private bathroom, he felt his stomach churning and his breaths coming quickly.

What was he doing? If Rhysand was caught, if Amarantha stopped trusting him, he would lose everything he had worked for. He remembered how hopeless, how powerless he was the night she stole their power. He had begged on his tattooed knees…

What if he found the mortal woman? Even worse, what if he didn't find her? His thoughts moved on. Rhysand wasn't sure which outcome he preferred.

He had rose that morning full of an energy he hadn't felt in a long time. He spent the night having lovely visions of the woman staring into a pond. The pond was filled with a flowing starlight, and the woman traced her hands gracefully over its surface as if afraid to jump in. But as Rhysand watched the dancing starlight, he could only think the pond paled in comparison to her eyes. He had awoken with her scent stuck to him, and his mind trapped in a court far from Under the Mountain. Her dreams had been so much more beautiful lately, less nightmares and more about the wonders of Prythian.

After a morning of pacing and sparing with one of the scowling faeries of Amarantha's court, Rhysand finally was able to get dressed for Calanmai. He stared at his reflection in his bathroom, his dark tunic immaculate. No trim, he wouldn't want to seem too pompous. He wanted to look as much like himself as possible.

 _Cauldron._ Rhysand took a deep breath. _What is wrong with me?_ He took another. _You can do this._ And then he winnowed into the Spring Court's green hills.

* * *

There was a crowd already gathered at Tamlin's yearly spectacle. The largest number of faeries were crowding around the cave in which the magic would happen, for lack of better words. Rhysand almost snorted to himself as he remembered exactly how _faerie_ Calanmai truly was. Why would a mortal woman want to come be amongst the faeries as magic as strange as the one that created Prythian took over?

As Rhysand did not want to be seen by Tamlin or his confidants, Rhysand skirted around the outside of the crowd and reigned in a bit of his power. It would not be wise to be recognized this early in the evening. The music, the pounding beat called to some feral part of him. It struck a cord deep within his gut, making the hairs on his arms rise and seeming to amplify his senses. He felt a pulling guts to get closer _, come see_ , but he resisted. Rhysand settled next to a tree on the very outskirts of the hills, far enough away that the shadow helped provide some cover. He used his amplified senses to scent to the sweet Spring air, but there was no hint of her lilac and pear scent. The sun was still setting over the hills, the bonfires still burning low. The crowd, mostly Tamlin's rabble, milled about. Their masks gleamed under the setting sun, each varying in style and color. Only the servants, wearing masks in the shape of birds were of similar shape.

Rhysand crossed his arms and leaned back against a large oak that protected him from prying eyes. No one approached him or even noticed him. Their eyes slid past him as he used the remnants of his power to shield himself from their eyes. With every glance over his shadows, he was looking for gray-blue eyes, shining hair and rounded ears. He spread his mind out across the crowd, not yet noticing Tamlin or the High Lord's favorite emissary, Lucien. Tamlin was yet missing from the crowd, likely still hunting the sacred white stag. Rhysand smiled when he noted he must have arrived just after Tamlin left. While it was expected that each of the High Lords of Prythian participate in their own Great Rite, Rhysand had always completed his own version in the Night Court. In his absence, Mor was completing it for him. His lips perked up at thought of the other High Lords realizing that a female was completing one of the Great Rites of power for him. Amarantha didn't even notice the lack of the yearly cycle in him.

Slowly, the sun was descending deeper in the sky. Rhysand finally had spied Lucien in the crowd, wearing his Fox mask. _Fitting._ Lucien was mingling with a few High Fae women, his eyes on a pretty redhead. Lucien was oblivious to his presence, and Rhysand intended to keep it that way. As time swept the day away and evening turned into night, Rhysand moved from his perch against the tree to get a better view of the crowd, but mostly to look at the sky. Faeries swayed in place around him, overlooking the cave to the call of the drums. The beat of the drums called to that primal part of him, but Rhysand felt almost unaffected. Making love, sex was nothing compared to the call of the sky.

Rhysand couldn't really remember the last time he saw the sky without Amarantha glaring over his shoulder. The night's air kissed his face in welcome, recognizing its High Lord. The stars were hard to see due to the glare of the bonfires below, but the sky itself was exceptionally clear. There was a full moon hanging over the crowd, an emblem of the fertility that would be used to replenish the land for the next year. He longed to spread his wings and dive into the night sky without a glance back to the world… but. The stars. They were a glowing silver above him, a mockery compared to the eyes of the mortal woman he had followed here. _Perhaps another night._

He took a steadying breath.

And then he scented her.

His eyes snapped back to the crowd. Rhysand took a breath again, trying to find her floral scent in between the smell of the bonfires surrounding them. There she was… he followed it. He swore that a hand was squeezing the heart in his chest. He crossed the crowd, his eyes glued straight ahead, searching. Rhysand pushed faeries aside as he strolled through the crowd, but no one noticing the High Lord of the Night court pushing through them. They were too enamored in the Fire Night fun.

 _There, by the trees._ He caught a glimpse of golden-brown hair from between the crowd.

Then, finally he was through the crowd. Rhysand couldn't _breathe,_ his heart was strangling him, his veins were burning…

"Leave me alone," the voice from his dreams said, loud and angry.

Then he saw her.

She was wearing leather pants and a long white tunic. A hooded cloak had fallen around her shoulders, the lack of hood revealing her for what she was. Her hair flowed down her back in waves, two thin braids betraying her rounded ears. Her legs were spread in a fighting stance, her arms up, hands curled into fists. Three picts, dark mockeries of the High Fae were gathered around her. Their black eyes were gobbling up her form, their tall bodies bent over her in anticipation. The front pict had his hand wrapped around her left arm, holding it tight. Very few other faeries surrounded them, most averting their eyes at the scene.

"Bold statement from a human on Calanmai," the scum gripping her arm said. "Once the Rite's performed, we'll have some fun, won't we? A treat- such a treat – to find a human woman here." Rhysand was at once, furious, angrier than he had ever been. The thoughts, the oily, disgusting thoughts pouring from these faeries made him want to wipe them from the face of the earth. From the _memory_ of the earth. It was only the human woman's determined face that kept him from running to her right then and there. He slowly walked towards them, trying to maintain some semblance of calm.

The human bared her teeth at the faeries. Something deep in Rhysand stirred at that. "Get your hands off of me." She said loudly, and without fear.

The next pict, seemingly second in command, came to her side now, running a hand down her side, across her ribs and her hips. The third pict circled behind her, weaving his fingers through her golden-brown hair and pressed his body against hers.

Rhysand started walking to her faster than before, fury flowing from him in dark waves. How far should he let them go before he-

"Stop it," the woman gasped desperately, some of her fear showing in her voice now. They began to pull her back towards the darkness of the woods behind them. She fought them, thrashing her body back against theirs, trying to tear her hands from the grasp of the first pict.

And that was enough for Rhysand. As she thrashed, the first pict shoved her, forcing her out of their grasp. As she fell, she was twisting, a hand reaching towards her waist.

Rhysand had folded the map of the world around him in order to catch her. Before she as so much had made it a quarter of the way to the hard ground, his hands grasped her gently underneath her shoulders. As he grasped her, he realized that the twisting during her fall had been her attempting to reach for a knife he could now smell the iron-tinged scent hanging from her belt. She was a fighter, there was no doubt of that.

And, as she steadied on her feet, and the picts saw who know stood between them and their prey, Rhysand didn't know what to say. The High Lord of the Night court was speechless, strangled by his fury and longing and he was _touching her-_

She was grateful, he could see and feel that in her mind. The picts… they were afraid as they should be. Rhysand was thankful for his Illyrian training, teaching that allowed him to take so much in at once.

Rhysand wrapped a careful arm around the shoulder of the mystery woman, enveloping his senses in her lilac and pear scent. All the while he wanted to kill those picts for the disgusting monsters that they were, for what they had wanted to do to her. But her eyes… and she was so fragile, he could feel the lack of immortal grace but… _Say something._ He began speaking.

"There you are. I've been looking for you," he said, his voice strong. For once, Rhysand wasn't lying.

He looked at her as he said this, and she was just like she was in his dreams. But her lips stayed in a tight line, her starlight eyes narrowed at the three faeries before them. She was still fighting the instinct to run, her fluttering heart thundering in her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, not from fear but with anger. She was so familiar to him, but would she know him?

Rhysand turned his eyes back on the three faeries, the rest of faeries having had cleared out of the area at the first promise of a fight. He loosened his grip on his power, and he knew both from the looks on their faces and the smell of their fear that they knew _exactly_ who he was.

 _What is the witch's whore doing her? And what does he want with our treat?_ The leader was thinking, although his face was pale.

"Thank you for finding her for me." Rhysand smoothly ground out. Fury was still coursing through his veins. "Enjoy the Rite." He spat, allowing some of his fury to show. He knew that they could see the night sky curling around him. The picts had the good sense to stiffen, and stumble back to the bonfires. Rhysand almost followed them back, wanting to show him exactly how cruel the night could be. But he had found her. Rhysand was touching her. She was here, and he would not leave her. So, he just stared ahead, desperately thinking of what to do now. He had that sly smile plastered on his face, out of habit so he could just think-

As Rhysand stared at the back of the picts heads, the woman relaxed and took one step out from under his arm. He was suddenly cold. She turned to address him.

Her mind was as open as a book, so innocent, and so human. She had turned to thank him, but as she turned her thoughts stopped short. Those beautiful gray-blue eyes stared over him, but the message was clear. _He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen…_

As Rhysand looked at her, the woman of his dreams he knew. That while Rhysand might have seen her dreams, she had not seen his. Some part of him somehow left unbroken snapped.

 _Right back at you, gorgeous._

* * *

Ooooh! Review! :)


	3. A Fragile Hope

Happy New Year everyone! 2018 was a year of transition for me, so I am hoping that 2019 is a year of success and happiness.

This chapter is a little shorter, but I am pleased with how it ended.

Some warning: Some torture-ish themes are ahead so if that part bothers you just skip over the last scene.

Enjoy and please review!

* * *

The mortal woman was staring at him, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. They were now facing each other, Rhysand drinking her in like a glass of water on a hot day. The rage that had been consuming the oxygen in his veins was now gone… replaced with a different kind of heat as her eyes bore into him.

Those picts… while no longer visible, Rhysand would have to find them later. If they reported to Amarantha that he had been spotted talking to a human at Calanmai, _claiming a human on Calanmai_ , both Rhysand and this woman would pay for his stupidity.

Rhysand knew he was staring. The woman's tunic was disheveled from her struggle with the foolish picts, her hood still hanging loosely around her shoulders. A thin belt was around her waist, holding two knives in place. Her hair was neatly braided, revealing her ears. Her eyes were opened wide, examining his own face with a blank look on face. She was so flabbergasted at his appearance that her mouth was slightly open.

Rhysand wasn't sure how it was possible, but she was even _more_ beautiful in person. He couldn't help but be amused at the expression on her face, that coy smile plastered on his face turning into real amusement. Her sweet scent filled the clearing, mixing with his own. Some sick part of him enjoyed that.

 _I found her, I found her, I found her, I found her…_ Each drum beat from the festival was singing.

Her mind was open like a book. She thought more in a tune, waves than in complete sentences. Her music was almost shouting at him, so loud, and utterly _her_ that he couldn't help but listen.

She wanted to thank him, even after being stunned by his appearance but his immortal stillness had spooked her. She saw the sheer power pouring from him, the way the night wrapped around his form.

She wondered what court he was from, wondering at his lack of mask… so she was familiar with the Spring Courts ailment then. The woman was so beautiful, curious but cautious. She had no idea what to do with him.

 _There are many things that you could do with me, darling…_ Rhysand wanted to whisper to her, but thought better of it. He had never wanted anything the way he wanted her, but maybe it was the pounding drums of Fire Night that were pulling at some untamable part of him.

Instead he purred, "What is a mortal woman doing here on Fire Night?" in that way that he knew females enjoyed, unable to help himself. He was pleased with the change in her scent as his voice washed over her. _Okay, cauldron, reign it in, Rhys._

Despite the reaction of her body, she let that part of her that wanted to bolt from that dark part of him win. She took a step away from him. "My friends brought me." Rhysand hear the lie but…

The less he knew, the less he had to keep from Amarantha… and if he discovered too much, he knew deep down that it would be very difficult for him to stay away from her. He did not want to think of the _implications_ of that little fact but… she was examining his body now, her eyes burning a fire over his skin. She was taking in his form, and Rhysand was pleased to hear the word _magnificent_ humming from her mind.

"And who are your friends?" He couldn't help but ask _some_ questions after all. Rhysand ate up her form as she took in his. Her flushed chest rose with each breath, blowing her scent over him with each exhale. _So sweet._ Her star eyes were smoldering.

"Two ladies." She said, her voice high. Rhysand was surprised to find that while she knew he was different, that she should be scared… she wasn't. She wanted to run, instinctually from the pure power that Rhysand knew rolled from him. But she did not fear him. Not the true terror that had been ingrained into the minds of almost everyone in Prythian.

"Their names?" He asked, a simpering smile on his lips. She was so far away from him, her steps slowly pulling her towards the bonfire. She was silent.

Well, if she wanted to play the game of secrets, Rhysand was a veteran.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, a habit for when he was nervous. His hands, he learned from a young age, would be the first things to betray him. Rhysand took a single step toward her.

She backed away another step. She did not say anything, but just stared at him. _Did I trade three monsters for something far worse?_ She wondered.

Rhysand wondered the same thing himself… he swept his mind out, looking for prying eyes. If they were discovered… this woman probably would be better off to have been ended by those picts tonight.

"You're welcome," he murmured, unable to help the chuckle from escaping at the instant flash of irritation, "For saving you." Her face flushed in the most pleasant way.

She took another step back. She was starting to give completely into the instinct to run from him.

He almost wished she would, so that it would be easier to let her go. With her so close, after so many visions, so much searching, and hope and daydreams about her… it would be impossible to leave her.

But if she left him, he would not follow. _Stay. Talk to me…_ he was begging her.

She was debating on running to the bonfire, wondering if _Lucien_ or someone named Alis would take pity on her _. Interesting. So, she knows Tamlin's emissary._

"Strange for a mortal to be friends with two faeries," Rhysand murmured without thinking. She was still thinking about running, so he began to circle her.

If she thought him a monster, he might as well meet her expectations. Besides, he had such a lovely view from behind, and he enjoyed the curve of her neck as she craned it to watch him.

"Aren't humans usually terrified of us? And aren't you, for that matter, supposed to keep to your side of the wall?"

"I've known them my whole life." She lied. "I've never had anything to fear from them."

Rhysand stopped moving once he reached her escape route towards the bonfire.

"And yet they brought you to the Great Rite and abandoned you."

"They went to get refreshments." She lied again. Rhysand couldn't help the grin that spread over his face at the thought. The food served during Fire Night was a potent aphrodisiac… any friend of hers would not be bringing her refreshments out of kindness.

Her heart set off in her chest as she took in his smile, turning her body so she was again facing him. He could hear that she thought he was terribly handsome… and dangerous. Rhysand knew that he should walk away now, wish her a lovely evening, and never look back.

But she was impossible for him to walk away from, he could deny her no more than he could stop breathing.

"I'm afraid the refreshments are a long way off," He stepped towards her unconsciously. "It might be a while before they return." Before Rhysand could lose his nerve, he said, "May I escort you somewhere in the meantime?" He removed his betraying hands from his pockets, now close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. He held out an arm for her to take.

Rhysand was sure now that he was going insane. This was the stupidest thing he had done in fifty years, risking everything for a moment with this _mortal_ woman. But there was no denying that he wanted her, wanted to know her, wanted to feel her tingle with pleasure with the simple caress of his voice. It was so unlike him to make such a risk, he wondered… but he could not let that thought take flight.

She stared into his eyes, leaning towards him slightly. The air was electric around them, the night air sweet, cool and caressing. "No," she said slowly, as though her lips were not cooperating with her brain.

 _Could she feel it too?_

But she had said no… and if she didn't want him then… he would let her go.

Rhysand swallowed back his frown. He waved the arm in which he had held out for her towards the bonfire. "Enjoy the Rite, then. Try to stay out of trouble." As he said it, he meant it. Even if the most dangerous thing here was standing right before her.

She swallowed. Rhysand did not step away from her but turned his body towards the darkness. It was almost painful for him to turn away form her, as if some tether had been pulled tight between his soul and her own.

He was trying to find the strength to walk away from her when she suddenly said, "So you're not a part of the Spring Court?"

Rhysand's heart skipped a beat. He turned back towards her, his eyes eating her alive.

He couldn't help the lazy smile that blessed his lips. "Do I look like I'm part of the Spring Court?" Rhysand again enjoyed the flush across her cheeks as she angered at his arrogance. _Beautiful._

He laughed quietly. "No, I'm not a part of the noble Spring Court. And glad of it." Rhysand gestured at his face where he was free from a mask. He wasn't lying. Tamlin was almost intolerable the last time they had seen each other… and Lucien could be tenuous. But he can't deny that he didn't pity them for the masks they had been cursed to wear. Rhysand would have peeled his own skin off.

She still watched him, the flush slowly fading. "Why are you here, then?"

She wanted to know who he was, why he was here.

Rhysand knew then, that he needed to act like the monster he was. Enough that she would walk away from him, from whatever this thing was. For her safety, and his sanity.

So Rhysand allowed some of that anger at Amarantha, that beastly rage seize up inside of him. He knew she could see the gleam in his eye as he loosened his grip on his power. She took a step back. "Because all the monsters have been let out of their cages tonight, no matter what court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn."

 _Let her believe this. Let her run home, wherever that is and forget about the monster in the woods._

This time, Rhysand smelled the sour stench of fear. It almost destroyed him. She took another step back as he smirked at her.

"Enjoy the Rite." She muttered, before she turned her back to him and walked directly towards the bonfires.

He watched her walk away, his insides twisting tightly inside him. The music whispered to him _chase her, chase her, chase her…_

Rhysand swallowed hard. And that fragile sort of hope he had felt earlier today... snuffed out as the gleam of her golden-brown hair disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Rhysand wanted to claw his soul out his body. He wanted to be free, wanted to go after that beautiful woman, take her into his arms and tell her everything.

He wanted to tell her how he lied to everyone but a select few, a select few he hadn't seen in almost 50 years, a select few who probably hated him for trapping them in the Night Court. He wanted to spread his wings, carrying her off into the night until he could keep her somewhere where no one else would ever find them.

But Rhysand hadn't had what he wanted in a very, very long time.

Her scent lingered around him, and he curled the night in around him, trying to savor what he could. He was now alone in the dark.

Rhysand had never felt like this, wanted anything the way he wanted her. He didn't know why, he didn't understand it… but he understood that he could never think of her again. Rhysand knew that he could never see her again, speak to her again because if Amarantha found this woman… Rhysand would give up everything, his entire court to free her from the witch's clutches. He thought of the Children of the Blessed, snatched up by her minions and tortured for sport in the throne room.

Rhysand closed his eyes.

And then he thanked the Cauldron.

Because even if he couldn't have her, couldn't see her, couldn't _know_ her, he was thankful.

Rhysand was thankful that the Cauldron had blessed him with the opportunity to meet her just once.

Perhaps the Cauldron knew how he suffered and wanted to reward him for his sacrifice.

Perhaps a glimpse of the girl with the starlight eyes will be enough to get him through the rest of his times.

Rhysand took a deep breath of the night, blocking out the pounding of the drums, absorbing the sweet night sky as he hadn't done in 50 years.

Then, he encouraged his longing to transform into rage.

If he could not want her, have her, then he would spend the rest of his time honing his rage into an edge that could be stabbed into the heart of the witch.

The sharp air filled him with purpose, and he at last opened his mind again.

He opened his eyes again, taking in the dark shadows of the forest.

 _Picts._ First things first.

* * *

He found the group of them lurking in the darkness on the other side of the bonfire, pouting over the loss of their prey. They were examining the rest of the crowd for any easy victims, not the type to enjoy consensual relations, even on Calanmai.

The leader was leaning against a tree, while the other two were plopping spring berries into their mouths, wrinkling their noses at the sour taste.

Rhysand winnowed behind them, directly into the darkness, none of them even sensing his presence. He allowed that burning, cold rage to take hold of his soul.

He could feel his night sky watching him overhead.

He could see a pale hand, mixing with golden-brown hair. He could smell her terror, hear the desperation in her voice. He could see the leader shoving her away from him, hoping to throw her to the ground.

 _They would pay._

Before his scent could wash over them, he growled, "Hello, scum." Rhysand had a firm grasp on his power and broke into their minds without a second passing by. He didn't feel like playing his usual game. He wanted them to bleed, to suffer, to be destroyed.

Rhysand seized his loathing of Amarantha, of these _bastards_ who took advantage of the innocent and destroyed life without so much of a second thought. He thought of wide star-lit eyes, widened in fear as she thrashed away from their claws.

And without remorse, he reshaped their minds, their lives, their very memories until nothing remained but a false story. No one noticed the three picts were now staring blankly ahead, the berries dropping softly from their hand into the grass.

The night sky above was the only witness.

Rhysand shaped them into something new: Rebels, full of hatred for Amarantha and ideas of freedom from her rule. He almost felt like this was too noble of a way to go out, but he kept hearing, _"Get your hands off me…"_ beneath the rhythmic pounding of his pulse in his ears.

And he thought of how Amarantha liked to torture those who fought against her… she would burn them, rip their skin from their bodies, force them to drink their own blood and vomit.

Taking a deep breath, Rhysand examined the story he created in their minds. He planted a cruel smile on his lips.

He kissed his night goodbye.

With a twitch of his finger and a twist of his dark powers, he forced the picts to grasp hands. With distain written all over his body, Rhysand grabbed the leader by the arm and winnowed back Under the Mountain.

* * *

As the world folded around him, the sap on his power was so much _more_ than it would have been 49 years ago. But, with some effort, they landed in the hallway outside of the throne room. The air was so stale here, musty and smelling of pain, fear and sweat. Rhysand almost gagged on it after breathing in the sweet night air for the first time in so long.

There was the usual sort of rabble wallowing in the hallway, mostly lesser fae and servants. The three picts had landed in a heap on the floor, Rhysand not caring to have them to catch themselves. He still had a firm grasp on their minds, their bodies, their very souls.

As they appeared from nothing, two of the Attor's minions jumped out of the way, howling in surprise. Rhysand had landed smoothly, not allowing that pull on his power to show.

He snapped his fingers and was suddenly back into proper court attire, his usual black tunic with silver trimmings. He smiled arrogantly, this time not a complete ploy. _Get your hands off me…_ was still replaying in his mind. He pushed it down into the deepest part of his memory, reinforcing his adamant walls. He couldn't think of her again. _Not here. Not now. Not ever._

He raised his hand, and the three picts were lifted from the floor as if some rope had picked them up by their ankles. The strain on his power was intense, but Rhysand knew Amarantha liked a show. With a twitch of his other hand, the throne room doors were opened, and Rhysand strolled casually behind his three prisoners. They floated in the air above his head, their feet scrapping the doorway. Their faces were red as their blood pooled into their faces, their black eyes blankly open. Rhysand could feel their terror in his mind. The crowd of the throne room parted, many of them in evening gowns and fine suits. Formal tonight then… of course, Amarantha was hoping for a reason to celebrate as he returned tonight.

Amarantha was standing on the dais of her throne, a long green gown pooling around her. Rhysand thought she looked a bit like some sort of drainage but as he approached her, he cooed, "You look ravishing, Your Majesty." He remained bowed until she raised the hand with Jurain's eye on it for him to kiss.

A small smile graced his lips as he stood back to his full height, taking his place at her right side. With a brandishing of his hand, he brought his prisoners forward so she, and her court could get a proper view. Rhysand felt some of his power returning with her pleasure, making it easier for him to keep them elevated.

Rhysand dumped them unceremoniously on the floor below the dais. They slumped to the ground with three loud thuds, not moving unless Rhysand willed it. He controlled everything, their breaths, their blood, their bowels. "I see you have brought me a gift." Amarantha said quietly, a small smile gracing her lips.

Rhysand bowed again, aware of every eye on him. "Three gifts to be exact. Traitors lurking around the bonfires at Calanmai, attempting to find other criminals in the Spring Court." The throne room was quiet now around them. No other High Lords were present tonight, just the usual crowd of the Queen's Court. There were far too many amused smirks in the crowd.

"Allow them to stand Rhysand. I want to speak with them." Amarantha was oddly still, her voice strange. "I think we would all like to hear what they have to see, wouldn't we?" She gave a twisted smile as the crowd murmured around them.

Rhysand said nothing, giving her a small nod and a curl of his lips. He loosened his grasp on their minds, allowing them to slowly rise to their feet in front of her. The leader managed to find his footing first, using his hands to push him from the dirty ground to a standing position. His hands were shaking. The others were still struggling.

"And who are you?" Amarantha smiled down at him, her teeth gleaming in the Fae light.

The leader just glared up at her, the perfect, defiant rebel that Rhysand wanted him to be. His hands shaking, his face pale, but he glared none the less.

When he didn't answer, she turned her obsidian gaze to the other two picts, their black eyes flickering uncertainly around the room. They froze as she looked at them, their lips pulling back to reveal white, pointed teeth. They took their place behind their leader.

"Who are you to ask who we are, witch?" The leader finally growled at her.

Amarantha's smile only widened. "My, oh my," she cooed to the crowd. "It seems that they need to learn some manners when they address their queen, don't they?"

The Queen's court laughed menacingly, their faces practically begging for blood. The three picts stared up at her as she stood on the end of the dais.

Suddenly, she drew back her hand and slapped all three of them with her own magic. They fell to their knees, clutching their faces, a red burn mark brandishing where they were struck.

The crowd instantly quieted.

"You will address me only as your Majesty, or not at all." She hissed, her dark eyes pinned to the trio. "And you will answer me when spoken to."

The picts said nothing, still clutching their faces on the dirty floor of the throne room.

"My dear Rhysand tells me that you three were conspiring against me, looking for allies in the Spring Court. Is this true?"

Silence radiated through the room. They did not look up.

"I will find out one way or another, won't we dear Jurian?," She held her hand out so that his eye could take in the site. "My suggestion is that you talk… we have many ways of finding out what we want to know in my Court. Things will be so much easier on you…"

Amarantha stepped down off the dais, her pointed nails grabbing the leaders face. Small drops of blood formed beneath her nails, beading down his cheeks. His shaking intensified. "Nothing to say then?" She hissed in his face, bending over him.

He had tried to speak, to say something, but Rhysand stopped the words from escaping his mouth. They were his puppets after all.

 _Get your hands off me… stop it…_ her voice was still echoing in his ears.

"Very well. Let the fun begin." Amarantha smiled, swiping his face with her nails before releasing it, leaving four long red streaks on his left cheek, a sister to the red mark on his right.

She returned to her throne, her eyes slipping to Rhysand. He had resumed control of his puppets, waiting for the orders. "I think we should do this the old-fashioned way, Rhysand." Her eyes flickered over him. "Perhaps I will have use of your talents later tonight, if these three can survive." She was raking her eyes over his body.

Rhysand kept his small smile, inclining his head slightly in her direction. His disgust whirled through his body as her eyes had examined him, but Rhysand turned back to the scene at hand.

The Attor was now placing a long table in the middle of the throne room, it's wood dark with stains. There were three sets of manacles and foot restraints. The scent of blood and terror was filling the room, a combination of past prisoners and the three picts who were silently screaming.

As the tables were settled before her throne, the crowd swept close on every side, leaving just inches between their fine outfits and the wood. Her court could never resist a good blood-letting.

Rhysand used a dark wind to sweep up the three picts, their dark eyes gleaming with terror. His wind carried them to the tables, laying them flat on their backs, each in a row. The leader was in the middle. As the Attor and his minons began to strap the faeries in, Rhysand felt that pesky rock slipping through his guts again.

Torture, invading another's mind… these were both things he had hated about his fathers' courts, about his own Court of Nightmares. He could feel the fear of the picts, and smell various flavors of fear seeping throughout the room.

But… these picts, they had wanted to have his mortal woman. They were going to have her, with or without her cooperation, drinking her blood until she was empty and cold. Then, they were going to dump her body in the woods to be eaten by the wild animals who roam the Spring Court's wooded areas.

They were evil. And, if he would have left them… he had no doubt they would have made their way to Amarantha's courts and reported that he, High Lord of the Night Court and her most loyal servant, had stolen their prey.

So, Rhysand again encouraged his rage to take hold. His broken, raging soul could still be used to spearhead revenge on these bastards and protect that innocent woman. _Stop thinking about her._

He was helping reinforce Amarantha's faith in him, finding her traitors as he promised. And by keeping her faith, he was protecting Velaris, his Dreamers, _his human woman_ … He steeled away that regret, leaving only rage and cold calculation.

When the picts were firmly secured, Rhysand let go of their minds. They immediately began struggling against the restraints, their breaths coming fast and panicked. They stared up at the ceiling, forced to keep their head still by a leather strap beneath their chins.

"Now that you are comfortable, is there anything you would like to tell me?" Amarantha was sitting on her bronze throne, both hands gripping the arms. Jurian's eye was whirling over the picts.

"Please," the leader begged. "I will tell you everything, please just let us go." His voice was shrill. His dark eyes bulging out of his head.

"Oh no, that is not how this works. Start talking and then I will decide your fate." Her voice was almost playful, amused. "Were you conspiring against me?"

"Yes, but-"

"Were you looking for others to join your cause?" She was now sitting at the edge of her seat, a smile spreading across her lips.

"Yes, but we-"

"Did you find anyone to join you tonight?"

"No, your Majesty, please-"

"And how many of you were there tonight?" She was grinning.

"Just us three, mam, please we only wanted to help our families-"

"Listen to this." Amarantha was laughing. "They wanted to _help_ their families by attempting to gather forces against me. We haven't so much as touched our blades, and he is singing." The leading pict was silent now, his face pale. His companions were shaking violently against their chains, tears streaming down their faces.

"Well, little pict, I do not tolerate traitors in my Realm. I do hope your family will understand how you _helped_ them when I place them in the dungeons beneath my mountain." She stood again, ushering the Attor forward. He was holding a leather pack. "What are their names?"

The pict was shaking, face pale, eyes now closed.

"Tell me, traitor, how much do you value your fingers?" She pulled the pack from his hands, opening it to reveal a selection of long knives. She selected a moderately-sized, gleaming bit of steel. "Do you value them more than your family?" Amarantha tilted her head to the side. The Attor, bowed, and pulled the blade from the pack.

"Please, take mercy on us, please…" One of them was begging.

"Mercy is foolishness. Jurian did not show _mercy_ when he butchered my sister. And I will not show mercy today." Amarantha then sat, and leaned back against the back cushion.

She was no longer smiling. "Begin." A lazy hand waved.

Rhysand forced his face into cool amusement, his smiling unchanging, his hands now back in his pockets. The screaming started soon after her order. He did not look away, examining the blood that was now coating the tables.

As their screams and moans of pain echoed down his spine, he couldn't help but see _her._ He could see her struggling against them, as the second pict wrapped his fingers through her hair. He could see the leader pushing her, see her flushed face after Rhysand caught her.

 _Get your hands off me, get your hands off me, get your hands off me…_ It was like the beat of the drum on Fire Night, like the hiss of the blade against their bones.

Rhysand knew this could have easily been her. And he had no regrets.

So Rhysand stood to Amarantha's right side, enjoying the screams of the picts. She was carving them into pieces, her cruel lips curled into a smug smile. He _enjoyed_ their screams.

He had known what they wanted to do to his woman with starlight eyes, he had known the risk he had taken by saving her and he knew what her fate would have been if they had gotten to Amarantha before Rhysand got to them.

It was as they were peeling their skin off in strips that Rhysand began to realize that he was broken beyond repair.

The male who felt nothing was no more, destroyed by the cruelty of this court.

But, the male who felt consuming, unspeakable rage was in control.

The male who felt pleasure in the pain of faeries who got in his way… That male was in control.

And that male would shake the foundation of this mountain.

* * *

Please reivew! :)


	4. Nothing Left

Hey ya'll. Hope everyone had a great holiday and happy New Year!

Here is a long one for you. It's a chapter of reflection, so sorry if anyone is disappointed in that but I swear it will be worth the wait!

Enjoy, and as always please review. :)

-TurtleSteed

* * *

Rhysand was twirling a pen through his fingers, leaning back in the chair in front of his bedroom's hearth. He hardly had anything to write these days, having no one that could safely read his messages. But he was waiting on a message from the wraiths, Nuala and Cerridwen. Barely more than wisps of shadow, they were remnants of his friends that he could use to give short messages to his Inner Circle. He used them sparingly, unwilling to allow any notice to come by them. They were trained personally by his own spymaster, Azriel. However, unable to report to Azriel due to his… duties in the Night Court, they were Rhysand's only friends at court. If you could call two shadow-wraiths who were as silent as the grave _friends._ But… they were constants. Even if Rhysand was eaten by his guilt, his failures every time he saw their faces.

When Amarantha had thrown that awful party all those years ago, Rhysand had brought only part of his Court of Nightmares. Most of the important High Fae stayed to govern the court while he was away, but those were few. A large portion of his Night Court had come, excited to meet someone who agreed with their sensibilities. Including, his wraiths. When he had sipped his drink, felt his powers slipping away, and was focusing on saving his friends, his court, his life, he had forgotten about Nuala and Cerridwen. They were part of the Court of Nightmares, a product of a mating with something too strange for Rhysand to understand and one of Rhysand's councilmen, Hypeon. After their birth, Hypeon had taken them into his household in the Court of Nightmares to be raised with his other two children, a boy and a girl. The twin wraiths had grown up amongst them, slipping between the shadows of the court, and learning many things that they shouldn't. While Hypeon had never been Rhysand's favorite, the wraiths seemed to care for him.

They had never approached Rhysand as he governed over his court, and Rhysand had thought much of them. Until Rhysand brought Azriel with him to Hewn City for the first time since becoming High Lord. Azriel, his shadowsinger, was like them in many ways. He could merge with the shadows, talk to them, hear their whispers. He had wondered if he was kin with the wraiths the first time they met. Azriel had mentioned this to Rhys on a night in which they had had a bit too much to drink, and then noted to Cassian that he was thankful to find he was not related. The twins and Azriel… had always been two, or rather three of the same. They had not approached Azirel that night, but instead followed him out of Hewn City and appeared before Azriel when he was alone on the balcony at the House of Wind. They had made it through the barriers and wards of Velaris, and then through the wards to the House of Wind undetected. Once Azriel decided not to kill them, he enlisted them as spies. And occasionally took them to bed with him. _Like calls to like._

Rhysand had always found the last part amusing, especially since the wraiths insisted on calling Azirel, "master". He had never taken Azriel as the kinky type but… he had wisely kept his mouth shut.

Rhysand had asked them attend Amarantha's party as part of his Court of Nightmares, so they were present for Rhysand's downfall. The downfall of all the High Lords. And suffered as the result of it.

Amarantha, recognizing Rhysand as the son of the male who murdered Tamlin's father had hated him most of all the High Lords. Perhaps, she still hated him most of all. She did not recognize him as the prisoner she had taken and tortured during the first war.

As Rhysand took that _damning_ sip of his drink, she stole his powers along with the rest of the High Lords. And then, as she took his power, she made an example of him. She dragged him out, as he was as weak as a mortal, and with a single wave of her hand and a flash of light, half of Rhysand's Court of Nightmares was gone. Including Nuala and Cerridwan's father, step-mother, brother and sister. Their bodies did not even remain, they were simply gone. Their bodies had disintegrated as they screamed.

Rhysand had little power left in his bones, having used what was left of his remaining power as it faded to wipe Velaris, the wards, everything he cared for from the minds of Court he had brought to the party. Even Nuala and Cerridwan had forgotten everything, Rhysand unable to focus his power with such an expenditure. He also used his power to shield Velaris, binding it to his Dreamers, and sending a brief message to his friends.

His power was ashes in his hands as Amarantha killed his Court, forcing him to his knees with such wicked power. Rhysand could do nothing but watch the screams of his Court that was left… as they realized their family was forever gone. Nothing left behind to remember them with. Nuala and Cerridwan had both screamed, horribly high-pitched immortal noises. Nuala had clawed as the air, her hands flashing a quick as a shadow on a sunny day. Cerridwan had just stood, sobbing and screaming where her brother had been standing. While Rhysand did not love his Court of Nightmares… they were still his. He should have kept them safe.

Rhysand had bowed, bowed for so long before Amarantha. The rest of the High Lord's stood around her, their faces pale and drab, so empty of their power. Like fish out of the sea, butterflies without their wings. _Like the stars without the night._

" _I expect you believe that I have some grand reason for erasing half of your court, Lord of the Night." Amarantha had whispered in his ear, pulling his head back by his hair as he gripped the floor like it was his salvation. "The truth is, there is no reason, only that I can. That I can, and that I see your fathers face in yours. I know you are a murderer."_

" _You will beg, High Lord." She released his head, shoving him further down to the floor. "You will beg that I will spare your court. Then you will beg for my forgiveness for the crimes you have committed against Tamlin. And when you are done begging, only then will I decide whether to spare your life."_

 _Rhysand was a shattered glass on the floor, he was in a million pieces, his soul spilt all over the floor. He wanted to die, cauldron he wanted to die, to be swept under the surface of the cauldron… but, if he died his protection of the Night Court would be gone. His friends would be alone, left to deal with this mess on his own. He could not die, as much as he wanted to._

 _He knew, having been tortured by her before, that she did not give mercy. She wanted what she asked for._

 _Rhysand rose to his knees, looked Amarantha in the eye. He then bowed his head and leaned forward until his hands were just inches from the folds of her gown. "Please…" He gasped out, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth._

 _Behind Amarantha, he heard the other High Lord's shifting uncomfortably. He had not been liked even then, but he had been respected. They knew he was the most powerful of him. And yet she made him beg._

" _Please, what?" Amarantha purred, her feet just several inches from his fingers._

" _Please, do not kill my court." His eyes were closed, he couldn't bear to look._

" _And?" Amarantha said gleefully._

" _Please, forgive me. Forgive me for killing Tamlin's brothers. And for not stopping my father from killing his father and mother. Forgive me." Rhysand felt like an empty glass, a sinking ship, a star shooting through space with no way to slow down._

" _Hmm… how compelling. Although I'm not sure you truly mean it."_

 _And then Rhysand had said the words that had sealed his fate, "Please, I will do anything."_

" _Anything? Hmm. How convenient, I can think of many uses for you." Amarantha was close to his face again._

 _He had not understood what she meant at the time._

 _Then she was pulling him up by his tunic, like a bitch picks up her pups. His eyes opened, and she pulled his face back, so he could get a proper look at the other High Lords._

 _He could still see their faces as clear as the day. Nostrus, now dead, was staring at Rhysand with a mixture of terror and disgust on his face. Tamlin was staring at Amarantha, unfathomable fury on his face. Fury, and horror. Beron's face was carefully blank. Thesan's face was wan, his usual glow missing from his face. Helion's father, Amun looked on with undeniable horror. Borius, Kallias's father, was completely lacking color._

" _He is all yours if you want him, Tamlin." Amarantha was cooing. "Look at what I have done for you. Together, we can have vengeance."_

 _Tamlin was shaking his head._

" _Come see, Tamlin." He was still shaking his head, his eyes over Rhysand's shoulder. There was not a whisper of Tamlin's beast form, his claws away. Gripped completely by Amarantha._

" _Come see." Amarantha's voice was a command now._

"' _Rantha," Tamlin rasp, using a childhood nickname, "this is madness."_

" _Madness? This is just the beginning, my love. Together, we could be unstoppable. Think Tamlin… Not just High Lord, but King." Her voice was desperate._

" _No… let him go. Let us go." Tamlin's voice was weak. Rhysand's neck was aching with the force that Amarantha gripped him. "I do not want vengeance."_

 _Amarantha dropped Rhysand, he managed to catch himself before he hit the floor face first- weak, he was so weak without his power._

With a jolt, Rhysand was throne from his memories as a feather-like hand brushed his cheek. He blinked, and before him, his shadows stood. They did not dare speak, communicating only mind to mind and with quick, burnable notes. Twin shadows stood before the fireplace, the deep orange glow shooting right through them. Nuala was to his left, identifiable only by the way she stood with one hip out. Cerridwan, always the more conservative of the two, stood to the right. They both bowed before him, small smiles on their lips.

Rhysand was always filled with such _guilt_ every time he saw them. He could not deny they helped in so many ways, allowing him to communicate briefly with his Inner Circle, spying on Amarantha when he was away, spying on the Attor, but… if he had a choice, he would not let them serve him. They were devoted to Azriel, and through their devotion to Az, devoted to Rhysand, their High Lord. But, Rhysand had not saved their family. It was due to Rhysand's stupidity that they were now gone, that the girls with little to tether them to the earth now had once less connection to humanity. He would never forget their wordless screams.

Rhysand placed his hand over his chest, bowing his head back at them. An act that he would do for very few on this earth. Then, he looked back up into their eyes, and he felt the dark abyss of their minds open. Their minds were… strange. Inner connected, almost like a mating bond but more. Rhysand had only met a few mates in his life time, but their bond, the connection mind to mind, soul to soul seemed to almost dim in comparison to Nuala and Cerridwan's connection. If mates were made to compliment each other, made for each other, the wraith twins were made _from_ each other. Neither could exist without the other.

Rhysand gently enter their minds, trying not to pry and leaving a tether back into his own body. Their minds were deep, easy to get lost in. While most created barriers to protect themselves from daemati, Nuala and Cerridwan's minds were like whirlpools. Dark, cold holes that one could not slip out of unless the twins willed it. It had been a delicate process when Rhysand had decided to allow them to remember the wards, Velaris, his friends. A process that took several days' worth of power conservation to complete.

 _The Inner Circle sends their regards. Velaris is protected, and safe. There have been few probes into the Court recently, less than normal. Our master believes that Amarantha is focusing on protecting the core as the curse's end date approaches. More and more innocents are appearing on other Court's boarders. Innocents we did not know where in her custody._

 _Master's sources also report of a growing host in Hybern. It is unknown if it is related to Amarantha, or a separate attack._

 _The Morrigan remains governess of the land, the councilmen finally listening to her, somewhat from respect but mostly from fear. The White-Eyed Demon continues to protect the city. She had little to say._

 _The commander continues to train his hosts, quietly in the Illyrian mountain range._

 _As usual, they wish we tell you, "The world will be saved and remade by the Dreamers."_

Rhysand swallowed the rock in his throat and gave a small nod of his head.

 _And the commander wanted us to tell you to "Buck the hell up."_

Rhysand smiled. Then he quickly jotted down what he wanted to pass on.

" _Hello friends,_

 _I am but a shadow._

 _The day is dark, and the night even darker. There are no stars._

 _Tamlin is all we have left. I have nothing left to give._

 _Protect. Protect. Protect. Live. That is all I can hope for you._

 _I can only hope to be remade."_

Rhysand finished his letter, his heart sprawled out on the parchment. He blinked at how dark it was. He knew his dreamers looked for hope, look for something but… there was no hope left. It walked away with the girl with starlight eyes. Back to the bonfires at Calanmai.

Rhysand was only full of rage, and hopelessness. They were all so screwed.

Cauldron, he would take the silence, the emptiness of his soul back any day now. It was so much easier to bear than this.

As he handed his letter back to the twins, he smiled. They read over it quickly, blinking once. They looked up at him, their faces showing no hint of their emotion.

Then they threw the letter into the fire, having memorized it. They began to bow in unison, fading back into the darkness itself.

"Wait." Rhysand gasped, almost silently.

They paused, the shadows still eating them up.

"Thank you. For everything." Rhysand whispered.

With that, they faded back into the darkness.

Yes, the silence of his soul would be great again.

* * *

Each night Under the Mountain, more and more wicked creatures were crawling out of their homes. They would come in, clicking with strange limbs, smelling of rot and terror and fall to their knees in front of Amarantha. Swearing fealty, just as the other six High Lords had been forced to do all those years ago.

All except for Tamlin. It had been Tamlin's parade the past fifty years, every movement Amarantha made to terrorize and enthrall him. She loved him, clearly, in her own wicked way.

Rhysand honestly wondered if they were mates. It was difficult to identify mates until one of them accepted the bond… and it was clear if they were that Tamlin had rejected it. Rhysand wouldn't be surprised, mates were supposed to be equals and these two were both twisted in their own ways. And almost entirely controlled by their emotions.

Tamlin… had been kind when he was young. Rhysand had become friends with him, as he seemed as someone who could understand the darkness.

He was somebody Rhysand could relate to, as he was smart, enjoyed stimulating conversation. Tamlin had appreciated the art of war, of hand-to-hand combat in a way that Rhysand could appreciate. The Illyrian part of Rhysand's nature, the same part of him that called to the sky also called to training, to swordsmanship. And Tamlin had never felt good enough, the same way Rhysand felt. As a half-breed, it was strange to be the undeniable heir to the Night Court. And Tamlin… even then he had been stronger than his brothers. Signs that were becoming difficult to ignore from his brothers. But Tamlin had never enjoyed the idea of court posturing. Tamlin was brutal, easily angered but also funny. A bit like Cassian in fact. They had both spent their fair amount of time with war hosts, so that easy type of comradery was easily achieved.

Rhysand had never wanted to be High Lord. Some small part of him had always hoped that as his sister grew, her power would grow to outmatch his own. She was not fully grown after all, and she was almost as powerful as Rhysand at the time of her death.

But it wouldn't have mattered even if her power had outpaced his own. _High Lady of the Night Court_ was not a position that existed, and certainly wouldn't have been respected at the time. And Rhysand's father would have never tolerated it. He likely would have tried to hide her power as she grew more powerful, forcing Rhysand into the position he didn't want.

All this hoping had been for not.

 _Young Rhysand, grown but foolish, had been sparring with the youngest son of the High Lord of Spring Court. He had met Tamlin in the green hills of the Spring Court, and they had drunk sweet Spring wine stolen from Tamlin's father's personal cellar. After becoming incorrigibly drunk, they had messily spared until they were so tired, they could hardly bring the energy to rise from the grass._

 _Rhysand was lying on his back, the world spinning around him. His Illyrian fighting knives were sprawled on the grass next to him. He was shirtless, his skin sweating underneath the sun._

 _Tamlin was sitting nearby, his shoes off, his feet crossed in front of him. He was leaning back on the palms of his hands, the knives Rhysand had gifted him strapped across his chest. His eyes were closed._

 _Rhysand crossed his arms beneath his head, a lazy smile on his face._

" _I hope you don't allow your brothers to kick your ass the way I just did, Tamlin."_

 _Tamlin huffed a laugh, "You know it's not fair, I haven't had this much wine since Summer Solstice. And you have more time to train than me, old man. Besides, even drunk I think I could destroy any one of my brothers."_

" _I wouldn't say that too loudly." Rhysand chuckled and sat back up. "Where are they anyway? I'm accustomed to an audience." They usually appeared sometime during Rhysand and Tamlin's sparing, likely hoping Rhysand's knives would slide between his ribs. They disappeared then quickly, without a single word to Rhysand._

" _Entertaining some visitors from the continent." Tamlin was now frowning. "They brought a few females with them."_

" _Oh? Nothing that tickles your fancy?" Rhysand had picked up his knives and pulling a cloth from his pocket began polishing the grime from them._

" _I have seen wild boars that were more attractive." Tamlin said drily._

 _Rhysand howled out a laugh, "I would have thought that was exactly your type, brother." He wiggled some clawed fingers at Tamlin. This power was relatively new to him, Rhysand hadn't realized this was yet another power specific to a High Lord._

 _Tamlin growled at him, although half-hearted. A few birds flew from the trees around them. "How old is your sister now, anyway?"_

" _Livana will be 71 this fall." Rhysand frowned at him. "Don't get any funny ideas."_

" _Never." Tamlin laughed. "I can't deny that she is something to behold, however. Wings or not. I think it would make for some interesting-"_

 _Tamlin had stopped talking as Rhysand had pinned him to the grass, his knees on either side of Tamlin's chest, a clawed hand at Tamlin's throat. "Enough." Rhysand hissed at him. Tamlin was grinning up at him, unphased._

" _Alright, alright, get off me. I was only joking."_

 _Rhysand slowly let him go, but his eyes were daggers into Tamlin's smug face._

 _Tamlin laughed quietly, then asked, "What is your family up to these days? I heard your mother had been advocating for the rights of the lesser fae." His face tightened slightly. Rhysand knew he had likely heard this information from his father, who kept his beliefs no secret._

" _Yes. I do not think she made much headway however… Livana has been training daily. She could probably kick my ass by now." Rhysand smiled. "Mother is a little put out by the lack of response from the lesser fae."_

" _They plan on meeting me at the war camp in two days." Rhysand had been commander of several war bands over the past few months and kept it no secret from Tamlin. His most recent warband was… challenging. "I have been meeting a lot of resistance from the males and females alike. I am hoping that if they meet them that maybe that will change their attitudes…" Rhysand trailed off, lost in thought. If he could just get them to train… "Anyway, they plan on meeting me at the war camp. You should come."_

" _What?" Tamlin asked him incredulously, his eyebrows raised._

" _Come meet them. You said Livana was beautiful." Rhysand challenged him, his eyebrows up in return._

" _I couldn't… you know my father… and yours…" Tamlin was sputtering._

 _Rhysand lowered his voice. "You know they are only threatened by us. They know that if we liked to, we could take everything."_

" _Maybe… no. No, I can't, Rhys. You know I can't."_

" _Suit yourself. Although, my sister has asked about you as well."_

" _She has?"_

" _Yes. And if you can keep comments about her wings out of your filthy mouth, I do not think it would be too bad to have you as a real brother. And you know how my parents feel about you… perhaps if they met you… my friends as well. I think you would fit in just fine with them."_

" _Thank you." Tamlin was staring at him, his green eyes burning holes into his skin._

" _Don't let it go to your head." Rhysand chuckled and threw a knife half-heartedly at Tamlin._

 _Tamlin caught it inches from his nose. He gave Rhysand a real grin this time._

Rhysand was watching one of Prythian's scum bow before Amarantha. He was not feeling like his usual self-tonight, he was angry, much too angry… He had made the mistake of counting the days. And then counting them again. He had shoved thoughts about his mortal woman out of his mind, he no longer smelled her scent, no longer saw her face… except in his dreams.

With nothing to tether him to humanity, he was raging. Because today was three hundredth year anniversary of his mother and sister's murder. Three hundred years since Tamlin had made him an enemy. So, as Amarantha gracious accepted allegiances, and tortured those who refused, his mind was a hundred miles away from Under the Mountain, deep in his Illyrian mountain range.

 _Rhysand was supposed to meet them halfway. But he was distracted, and his men had needed him. So, he had stayed until the sun had slipped behind the white capped mountains and his undisciplined warriors finally could fly in a proper formation._

 _Rhysand was breathing in the night sky, using his magic to warm the air around him as he flew back to the main war camp. He was several miles away from the regular camp, but he had a small smile on his face as he prepared to see his mother and sister for the first time in several weeks. They had been traveling from court to court, speaking about lesser faeries rights and making friends wherever they went._

 _They were irresistible to most who met him. His sister was young, much younger than him but almost fully grown. His parents had not expected to be able to have another child, so she was a happy surprise. Rhysand was grateful for her birth, and impatiently watched her grow into the person she was. She would be somebody who understood him, completely._

 _She was powerful, not quite as powerful as he was now but certainly more powerful than he had been at her age. Livana was a force to be reckoned with, charming and beautiful, wild and strong. She looked a lot like their mother, her face exotic and tan. She had raven colored locks, her hair long and curled. She was small, definitely female, and moved with purpose. Livana was filled with laughter, swore like a sailor, and fought like an alley cat._

 _She was his best friend. She had been quiet when she needed to, her deep violet eyes understanding so much more than he dared say. Livana knew how to make him laugh when he was brooding. And she knew him better than anyone else._

 _His mother, the seamstress, the kind and fiery, Illyrian woman loved him deeply. She had tutored him and had not babied him. She made him strong, taught him his Illyrian roots, and what it really means to be a male. She knew he was easily swayed by the heart and hid his engagement ring. She gave him what he needed to survive._

 _As Rhysand landed in that war camp, he could smell something was wrong. The scent of the air was all wrong. The warband was usually filled with the scent of sweat, anger and steel but tonight, the scent of fear and absolute fury was lacing through the usual scents. As he landed, his knees buckling beneath his weight, the camp grew quiet. Several warriors who were outside saw him, and quickly flew off into the night sky._

 _Tyrin, the current commander of his war band was standing nearby, his face white. He did not approach Rhysand, but looked at him in… fear?_

 _Rhysand dared not search out with his mind for the cause of this disruption. He wasn't sure that he was ready for whatever was wrong._

 _Tyrin approached him as Rhysand was frozen to the spot he landed. "Rhysand… my lord…" Tyrin got to one knee in front of him. Oh, something was definitely wrong._

" _Rise. Tell me. What has happened?" Rhysand rasp out._

" _I think.. I think you should come see." Tyrin rose to his feet, and then turned on his heel. He walked to the tent in which Rhysand was supposed to be staying in tonight with his mother and sister. The tent of a High Lord, commanding his army._

 _Rhysand forced his feet to walk forward, not ready to see…_

 _As he walked through the door it was the smell that hit first. It smelled irony, coopery, the thick scent of blood permeated this area. And entwined with the scent of blood was two other scents… one, smelled of cedar and pine… the other… smelled of mint and lavender…_

 _His stomach turned. No, no, no, no, no… He stumbled forward a step. Towards the box on the table, dripping pink-tinged water down to the floor. And inside…_

 _Inside were his family's heads. His sister. His mother. His sisters' violet eyes staring blankly to the roof the tent… His mother's eyes were closed._

 _Rhysand roared, a noise so full of anger and sadness that Tyrin fled from the tent. He fell to his knees. He gripped the carpet on the floor. Tears streamed down his face as he roared over and over…_

 _As he lay on the floor, a mass of pain and suffering, footsteps approached behind him._

 _Rhysand did not move… Livana… Livana… gone, they were gone._

" _Get up, boy." A deep voice shook behind him. With anger or sadness, Rhysand could not tell._

 _His father. Rhysand looked up at him, at his father's face. His father was ancient, over a thousand years old. But his face did not show it. Rhysand had always looked like his father. His face… was his fathers. His nose was his mother's, and his smile was hers as well. But… his eyes, his forehead, his chin. That all belonged to his father. His father's deep violent eyes looked down to him._

 _Rhysand could only see the pain in his eyes out of practice. He could see the wrinkle in his father's face that signified anger. But his father's posture was calm, cool, collected. His long, dark hair was as always braided carefully into a thousand different braids. His mind, an impenetrable fortress._

 _Rhysand stole some of his father's strength. He stood, shaking, unable to look at that table._

 _Instead, he looked to his only surviving family._

" _Who did you tell, Rhysand?" His father asked. His voice still shook, but…_

 _Rhysand was silent for a minute, his mind moving like molasses. It was like running through water… "Tamlin. I told Tamlin they were meeting me here."_

" _I thought so." His father said quietly. They looked at each other in silence for a minute, his father's face like a statue and Rhysand's… his face was wet._

" _I found this in the woods. Their bodies were gone, just blood coating the grass." His father placed his hands in front of him, and in his hands sat the knife Rhysand had thrown at Tamlin two days ago. Although clean, it smelled of blood. Of his sister and his mother. As if their heads had been hacked off by his own blade._

 _Rhysand stared at the blade. And then he ran to the corner of the tent and vomited._

 _His father just sat in the lone chair in the room, facing the soaked box on the retched table. Rhysand just stood in the corner, spitting the bile out of his mouth. His hands on his knees. He was trembling._

" _I hope you know that this is your fault. We warned you…" His father's voice shook now with rage. He gripped the arms of his chair, unable to look at Rhysand._

" _I didn't mean… I'm so sorry…" Rhysand said quietly as he straightened, and with a wave of his hand, his mess disappeared. "I thought he was different… I thought he understood."_

" _He is just like his father. I expect you were to meet them in the woods? But as usual, you were late?"_

" _Yes… yes I was supposed to meet them halfway." Rhysand whispered._

" _Then you are lucky to be alive, boy." His father looked at him finally. He was angry but… "I am glad you are alive."_

 _Rhysand stood, looking at his father in surprise. His arms felt too heavy, his stomach churning, his breaths coming too quickly. He didn't deserve anything…_

" _Do you want revenge?" His father asked him, his eyes still pounding holes into him. His head cocked slightly to the side, the long braids shifting across his shoulders._

 _Rhysand was quiet for a second before he nodded. And then he was in fighting leathers. And his knives were again across his chest._

 _He took the knife from his father that the Spring Court had used to butcher his mother and sister._

 _He placed it along the baldric with the rest._

" _This one belongs in Tamlin's heart." Rhysand looked up at his father. His father had changed from his usual black tunic to leather's as well, but with ornate silver accents. He brought only his sword on his waist, by name Starsinger. His braids were pulled back with a leather strap._

" _What do you know about the Spring Court?" he asked._

" _Tamlin has two brothers. They are strong, but not particularly skilled. Tamlin will be the biggest threat to us as he has been training with me… he knows my style. They live in a manor." Rhysand was planning out loud… "Tamlin's mother… she is innocent."_

" _I will not stoop down to their level…" his father muttered. "But they will pay for what they did to her."_

 _Rhysand smiled at the thought._

 _His father, surprisingly, smiled back. And Rhysand honed his rage into the deadly edge he loved so much._

 _They winnowed together to the outskirts of the Spring Court._

 _They were near a village, a village Rhysand had once visited with Tamlin. They had gotten drunk at the local tavern and beat the villagers at their card games. Then, feeling guilty, they tipped the waitress the whole of winnings._

 _His father and Rhysand walked through the yards of the houses on the outskirts, golden light streaming out from their windows. The night sky seemed to pull into them, sheltering them from sight. Stars streamed behind his father. Rhysand was imagining smashing the minds of Tamlin's brothers. Over and over and over. His body was hot with anger, his face warm._

 _They walked down the road silently, the night watching them from above. The manor was now in sight, it's gates tall and ornate. Utterly useless against the power of Rhysand and his father._

 _As they approached, Rhysand swiped a hand through the air and the gates flew open. Sentries began to yell as they approached, but they quickly quieted as Rhysand infiltrated their minds. He slipped them into a deep sleep._

 _His father was letting him do the sedating, aware that Rhysand had more power to give than him. Or perhaps, he was saving his power to kill Tamlin's father. Regardless, Rhysand's dark power was like a mist, like a shadow as it slipped from sentry to sentry. Staff, sentry and guests all slipped into a deep sleep._

 _They approached the front steps. And before them, two hulking shapes appeared. Tamlin's brothers, cruel and power-hungry. They were waiting at the entry way of the manor, ready for Rhysand and his father's retaliation._

 _Or so they thought._

 _As soon as Rhysand saw them, he held up a hand, infiltrating their minds and holding them still. They struggled against him, but their minds were so simple, so easy to control._

 _He infiltrated their memories, watch as his sisters screamed as they hacked off her wings. And then watched as his mother had her wings hacked off as well… Tamlin's father, he had done all of the cutting. He had cut their wings, and then taken their heads. They had burned their bodies except for their wings and their heads, their heads sent down the river to Rhysand. And the wings… brought home as trophies. Tamlin… he had no helped hold. But he watched. He stood, he watched, and he shook as he watched them murder Rhysand's family._

 _They were trembling as Rhysand held their minds, their bladders loosening as they realized how helpless they were against his powers. As Rhysand pulled two blades from his baldric, he only saw his sisters face as she screamed for mercy. He saw his sister's eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. And he saw his mother crying, begging for her daughter, begging for her to be spared._

 _In a blind rage, Rhysand cut them, over and over as they screamed into their minds. He tore off their fingernails with his dark power, sliding skin right from their bodies. He burned his minds in their skulls._

 _As Rhysand played, his father slipped behind them, through the open doorway. Rhysand continued his cutting, torturing them as they had tortured his mother, his sister. He cut them to pieces until their hearts began to fail as he bled them out. Then, when their heartbeats slowed, and they could feel themselves dying, Rhysand smashed their minds. They fell to the floor, fragments of themselves all over the ground. Butchered._

 _Then Rhysand, rage still coursing through him, entered the manor. He saw no sign of anyone in the ornate hallways. He followed his father's scent up the stairs, one knife out his left hand and his right hand out in front of him as he climbed the stairs._

 _He entered a hallway, clearly lined with bedrooms. At the end of the hallway, a door hung open, golden light spilling out. As Rhysand approached the doorway, he heard a female scream, and then a thump._

 _Then silence._

 _He pushed the door open the rest of the way, somewhat afraid of what he would see._

 _His father was standing over a small blonde form, crumpled on the floor. Red stain was pooling beneath her. His father pulled the sword out from her chest and wiped the side of his blade on her purple dress._

 _Rhysand entered the room, his heart sinking._

" _You said…"_

" _I said a great many things, many of them that I didn't not mean." His father looked over to the form on the bed._

 _Tamlin's father, sprawled out. He looked as though he hadn't stirred, hadn't attempted to save himself. Despite the mortal wound in his chest, he had not yet taken his last breath. His breaths gasp out from him. An ash knife was sticking out from his shoulder, above the gapping hole in his chest. Keeping him from healing._

" _His mind was too easy to infiltrate." His father said from behind him._

 _Rhysand felt the sweat beginning to cool his skin, and he was cold, so very cold…_

" _Come now… there is one left." His father turned and walked out to the hallway._

 _Rhysand followed him, the blonde's hair burning a hole into his mind._

 _His father headed down another hallway, and Rhysand sped up his steps to walk next to him._

" _Wait! Please, there has been so much death tonight… Don't kill him, let him go. He has more than paid for his sins." Rhysand, despite himself, was begging for Tamlin's life._

 _He had seen so much death tonight, he hadn't seen so much death since the war… His mother, his sister was dead… and Tamlin… although he had betrayed him… he had lost his brothers, his father, his mother._

 _Rhysand didn't care anymore. He didn't care that he had seen Tamlin in his brother's minds, standing off to the side, not speaking up as his brothers killed his sister. He didn't care that Tamlin had came with them rather than stand against them._

 _Rhysand had seen enough death for a lifetime._

" _Don't be foolish, boy." His father hissed, reaching for the door._

 _Rhysand jumped in front of him, blocking his access to Tamlin's door. "Stop!"_

 _The next few seconds seemed to take a lifetime alone._

 _Tamlin opened the door behind them. Rhysand was blocking his father, his father attempting to push him to the side, but he was stronger, he had always been so much stronger-_

 _Rhysand had froze when Tamlin opened his door, his father reaching for his sword at his side._

 _Tamlin's eyes were wide, his face surprised to see them standing in his hallway. And then he had smelled the blood clinging to Rhysand and his father, the blood seeping down the hall. And as his teeth turned into fangs, his hands into claws, and then his father must have died because there was a flash of golden light and standing before Rhysand was a beast then-_

 _Then Tamlin slammed his clawed paw into Rhysand's father, smashing his chest into a mess of flesh and bone… and a single claw pierced through his father's heart. He fell to the floor, falling into Rhysand's arms as Rhysand stood still between them both._

 _And then his father stopped breathing. His heart stopped._

 _And Rhysand felt the night sky itself sweep into him, amplifying his power into so much more than it was, and then he had wings and claws and he was the night and the stars and shadows-_

 _Rhysand looked at Tamlin. Tamlin looked at Rhysand. They both shifted back into themselves._

 _Tamlin was now golden, his eyes the greenest greens of Spring, a crown above his head. And Rhysand saw himself through Tamlin's eyes. His hair was gold of hay growing in a field._

 _Rhysand was now coated in the night sky, night sweeping around him, tendrils passing his face. Upon his head was a crown made of stars. His eyes, once blue were now the deepest blue of a star-streaked night._

 _Then Rhysand had ran._

Rhysand blinked himself back into the future. Amarantha was smiling down at yet another creature that had been freed thanks to her. She was the queen of the misfits, the cruel, and dark creatures of the world. She was smart, and she was beautiful despite how Rhysand hated her. And she was a product of her circumstances.

She, like Tamlin, had allowed their circumstances to make them into the monsters that they were today. He was sure there was good in each of them but just as Amarantha had changed, become so much worse because of her sister, Tamlin had changed after his family's death. Tamlin became a beast ruled by his anger, his emotions. His advisors had all left him, abandoned him as he pushed them away with his outbursts. Together, they had not grown from adversity but instead became monsters. Monsters that growled and hurt others when scared.

Rhysand supposed that now he was a monster in a way. His show had always been an act, an act that he had learned from his father. Act as though you don't care, hide the things you do care, and they will be protected. This was a lesson Rhysand had learned the hard way… and a lesson that he was still paying for today.

Rhysand watched as Amarantha had another throne placed next to her on the dais, bronze and ornate but smaller than her own. She was planning… she had many plans for Tamlin for the time coming up on the end of his bargain. After his bargain ended, she would break him, one way or another, until he was so destroyed that would be hers.

First, she would start with Lucien. Perhaps even Rhysand then would be offered again as a bargaining chip. She would individual destroy his entire court. Until he gave in, or nothing was left.

Rhysand wondered what would happen if nothing was left and Tamlin still never gave in.

* * *

I don't know why but this chapter was very fun to write. Please review!


	5. To Be A Monster

Hiya. Another long one.

I promise next post will have some Feysand action that we all have been waiting for.

I have to admit, this chapter was painful to write... but it was necessary.

FYI, I am aware of some typos in previous chapters that I plan on fixing over the next week or so. I don't have a beta, it's just little ol' TurtleSteed proofreading so it's hard to catch all of them unless you have some fresh eyes.

As always, enjoy. Please Review!

* * *

There was only a week left.

Only a week left before Tamlin would be adding a jewel to the crown above Amarantha's head.

This week was a fresh cutting into despair, a reminder of their futures if Tamlin did not break the curse.

Each night Amarantha presided over her throne, throwing parties, and tormenting the innocent and her enemies a like.

She was slowly emptying her prison, each evening a new parade of torture.

Tonight, three days before Summer Solstice, Rhysand was spread out on a burgundy couch in the corner of the throne room. Amarantha was entertaining herself with some of Helion's court, swirling around the room like a wicked wind.

He was watching her spin, wondering about their plans for the solstice. She had not shared her ideas with Rhysand, but he noticed the way she smirked at the mention of the holiday. There was no celebration planned Under the Mountain for the Solstice, so he supposed they would be going elsewhere.

 _Joy._

He stretched his legs around in front of him, resting them up on the table in front of his seat. On either side of him sat two pretty little things, their long golden hair shimmering down their back as they laughed at something he had said. Rhysand had chosen their company while he waited because their hair had reminded him of someone he was trying desperately to forget.

He had one arm wrapped around the faerie to his left, his fingers brushing her waist. His other arm gripped the wine he was holding like a life line. The faerie to his right was giggling in his ear, one hand on his thigh.

They were distractions, buffers to keep the rest of the court from looking too closely at him. And a means of making Amarantha jealous. While she did not love him, took him as a lover only out of spite, she had claimed him as her own.

Amarantha did not like to share.

But, Rhysand continued to play his game.

He was waiting, brushing his fingers across their hips, their legs, their necks. He never kissed them, never focused completely on them, one eye on the red-haired witch always.

Let them think what they would about that fact.

Rhysand knew this week was going to a wild one, and he had to be observant.

The new bronze throne next to her own was cowering beneath it's twin. Chains had been brought out and attached to the floor before her throne. More food, more unfamiliar faces lurked in the dark halls Under the Mountain than months before.

Something was coming.

As Rhysand slid a hand across the stomach of his play thing, he watched. Helion was now dancing with Amarantha, his handsome face displaying little of his thoughts. He was giving her a saccharine smile as he spun her around him, a hand on her hip and the other in her hand. Amarantha's shimmering black dress was whipping around them.

He had been invited of course so that Rhysand could infiltrate his mind, examine him for betrayal. Helion however was prepared for Rhysand's examinations and had surprised Rhys thoroughly by detecting the moment Rhysand had entered his mind. Rhysand was still scowling over it.

As Helion had arrived tonight, Rhysand was at Amarantha's right side. Looking very much like the loyal servant he pretended to be.

When Helion had bowed at Amarantha's feet, kissed her outstretched hand, he had looked Rhysand right in the eye, his golden eyes meeting Rhyand's own violet eyes.

 _Hello, twin._ Helion's eye's twinkled, his dark hair gleaming.

Helion had always joked that Day and Night Court, despite opposite were also complementary. Rhysand supposed they were.

Rhysand had always liked Helion, and he had liked Amun before him. Helion was old, older than Rhysand. He had been grown by the time Rhysand had met him as a child during a Summer Solstice celebration a few centuries ago.

 _Hello, friend._ Rhysand purred back into Helion's mind.

Helion was now smiling at Amarantha as she welcomed him to her court. His own tanned court was behind him, tall and nervous looking.

 _I suppose you will be searching my mind for incriminating memories._ Helion had thought, aware of Rhysand's presence.

 _I do as my lady asks me._

 _Go ahead then. I just hope that you remember our friendship before this is all over._

Rhysand was slowly examining his memories looking for-

 _I hope you will remember my friendship with your cousin as well._

Rhysand stopped, his mind reeling. He hoped no one noticed as he had subtlety stiffened.

He had forgotten that Helion knew all about Mor… Mor had spent some time in his court attempting to make allies several years ago. She had found him charming but returned to Velaris with little more than a few marks on her neck. Rhysand hadn't thought about who's lips had made those marks back then but-

Rhysand was foolish to forget that Helion had been playing the game long before Rhysand had.

And Helion had a weapon in the form of information of Rhysand's second-in-command.

 _Tell me, Night Lord, where has the Morrigan been all these years as we have suffered? I do not believe for a minute that you forgot about your cousin, or your Illyrian warriors or your-_

Rhysand brushed his talons against Helion's mind. A threat. _Enough. How long have you been waiting to remind me of this information? Half a century?_

Helion had invited Amarantha to dance with him by then, but Rhysand did not miss the smirk in his direction as he led her to the dance floor.

Rhysand said nothing for a moment. He picked an invisible piece of lint from his black tunic.

Then, Rhysand brushed back against his gleaming mental walls. _I will keep your secret if you keep mine._

Helion had simply smiled at Rhysand as he twirled Amarantha around the throne room.

Rhysand was frowning back at him. It was unlike him to leave loose ends, to forget something like the fact that another High Lord knew so much about his court.

He had to tread carefully. Not that it was anything new to him.

So, he settled in the corner of the room, carefully watching every exchange between Amarantha and Helion's court.

When Amarantha had broke off from her dancing, Rhysand knew as usual that was his signal to return to her side. He had made the mistake of becoming a little too distracted while she danced one night and had paid for it.

So, as she walked back to her dais, her face flushed and burgundy hair ruffled, Rhysand brushed off his toys and downed his wine before returning to her right side on the dais.

Amarantha floated to her bronze throne, brushing her claw-like fingers through her hair. She gathered her skirts and sat down smoothly. Jurian's eye was still tonight, staring unfocused at the ceiling of the chamber.

Rhysand wondered if Jurian's soul ever slept.

This was the time Amarantha liked to make proclamations, and to reveal her plans for that evening's entertainment.

So, as Rhysand smoothed out his tunic, plucking another small piece of lint from his chest the crowd quieted around him. Helion was now standing to the side by a table laden with food, sipping quietly on a small glass of wine. His court scattered about, their dark skin marking them as different to the usual rabble.

"Tonight, I have a great treat for all of you. As you all are aware, our dear friend Tamlin's freedom is coming to an end. We have a few short days to enjoy before he will be joining us." Amarantha smirked, her teeth gleaming against the darkness of her dress and the redness of her hair. "I have already begun preparations for his return." She waved a casual hard at the throne nearby.

"Upon his return, I will be issuing a summons for the rest of his High Lord brethren. We wouldn't want anyone to miss a moment of this fun." She smiled.

Someone in the crowd put their glass in the air, and shouted, "Here, here!"

Rhysand could have punched in their teeth, but instead he just shifted his feet and planted that seductive smile across his lips. His hands were in his pockets.

"For now, we will begin this evening's celebration with a visit from some of our traitors from Summer Court."

The crowd was silent again. Amarantha stood, the Attor scrambling to the base of her dais, freeing the chains from the floor.

Rhysand blinked. He knew nothing of this… he had anticipated something but Amarantha enjoyed more covert displays of power… torturing prisoners and dropping them off on the boarder of courts who were less than obedient. He had expected she would at least _tell_ him.

The throne room doors opened, and five of the High Fae were drug in by more the Attor's kin. Three males and two females, the women tall and dark haired. The men were all tanned, two with hair as light as parchment paper, one with brown locks.

"These five are members of Summer Court's armada. They were found on a ship off the coast of Winter Court, conveniently, just a few miles from our boarders. It seems that they planned to attack us while we were to be distracted by the Summer Solstice and Tamlin's return." Amarantha was looking at her nails as she spoke, ignoring the prisoners who were thrown to the floor before her. The Attor and his cronies were chaining them to the floor.

"My dear Rhysand had told that forced were gathering against me in the Summer and Winter Courts, but I had some difficulty believing this. You would think that they would have learned their lesson after I dealt with their father's so many years ago. Nostrus, Borius and Amun were foolish enough to betray me forty years ago, and I struggled to believe that Kallias and Tarquin were able to so easily forget their father's fates." Amanantha continued, and Rhysand scanned the crowd. Amarantha's court was flushed with excitement, eyeing up the new prisoners. Helion was pale, his face sapped of color. His hand was clutching his glass.

"I had wondered if you were involved of course, Helion. That is why I invited you here tonight." She smiled at him, looking like a cat sizing up a mouse. The prisoners were silent but thrashed against their chains, looking around in panic.

"Rhysand was ordered to search your memory upon your arrival, although I find it unlikely that you realized as his intrusion. His gifts are rather convenient." Amarantha folded her hands across her stomach.

"Rhysand, would you please share your findings with our court?"

Rhysand gave her a coy smile, and stepped forward, bowing at the waist. "Of course, Your Majesty." His voice was as smooth as honey. "It does appear that Helion's intentions are pure. I did not find any evidence of betrayal." His eyes were serious, his expression careful as he lied to her.

His lies were sweet, but it was difficult to deceive the Deceiver.

Amarantha scowled at him, clearly hoping for a more exciting news. Helion's court shifted uncomfortably as they took in her dissatisfied expression.

After a moment she said, "Very well. You will not suffer the same losses as your comrades, Day Lord. It seems that like Rhysand you understand the advantages of my reign."

Helion stepped forward from his perch by the wall, placing his wine glass in the hand of one of the lesser fae in her court. The lesser fae frowned at him and promptly through the glass to the floor.

Amarantha held out her hand, Jurian's eye looking directly at Helion now. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He bowed, and kissed her hand, his gaze seductive.

Rhysand brushed his claws against Helion's golden barrier. _You're welcome._ He hissed against the wall.

Helion did not reply, but he could feel his relief permeating through the barrier.

Helion stepped to her left side.

They were all waiting for the order.

The five faeries were shaking on the floor, completely silent. The chains that Amarantha used had pinned their ankles to the floor, their wrists together. Every eye was on them. One of the females had closed her eyes and was mumbling to herself. The men were shaking but looking up at Amarantha. The second female was staring at her feet.

Amarantha looked at the Attor, and her court. Then she said, "Let's give them a proper greeting, why don't we?"

And the court pounced on them, the Attor, his minions, and some of Rhysand's old members of the Court of Nightmares.

Rhysand was able to take their minds in his own claws. He took away their pain, made them scream when they were supposed to.

His hands were shaking in his pockets.

* * *

Rhysand awoke that morning in his own bed, having had slipped off successfully in the middle of the night. Amarantha's face was not one he wanted to see first thing in the morning. And he didn't like to sleep next to her as he couldn't always control his dreams…

That night he had dreamed off the girl with the starlight eyes. He had tried to avert his gaze, tried to move on to something else but he kept seeing that look in her eyes before she walked away from him on Fire Night.

She looked at him like he was monster.

Maybe Rhysand was a monster.

Rhysand dressed, and summoned Nuala and Cerridwan to his chambers using his own dark powers.

It was more draining than he liked to just summon them.

As they appeared, he spoke quickly to them in their abyss of a mind. Minds? He wasn't sure.

So, as he left his chambers, his night streamed behind him. He had discovered he was much less likely to be insulted when he reminded them exactly _who_ he was.

They passed few faeries in the hall, some of the lesser fae lurking in the corners. Their snouted noses wrinkled, hands wrung together, trying to be perfect little spies for her majesty. Rhysand had scowled at them, and that look had been enough to send them scurrying. Nuala and Cerridwan crept from shadow to shadow, ever unnoticed by any of those that they passed. He could only sense their presence behind them out of familiarity.

Down and down they crept, to the bowels of the mountain, until they reached an antechamber.

The antechamber was outfitted with a few fires with human sized spits, thankfully empty. In a large kiln in the corner, a few iron brands resting against the stone hearth. Ancient cages hung from the ceiling, just large enough to hold any particularly unlucky soul. Along the far wall to the right, chains were lined across the ceiling, two sets for ankles and wrists alike. Resting against the wall to the left a table was set up for guards. The room was remarkably lonely except for a faerie with a pig-like snout, asleep in the loan chair, his feet up on table. His arms were crossed across his expanded stomach as he snored.

Rhysand approached the table, his wraiths lurking beneath the hearth. They were little more than flickers of the firelight. He slammed a fist down on the table, jerking the pig-faerie awake. "I wonder how pleased her Majesty would be when she hears how her guards sleep on the job."

The faerie jumped to his feet, wiping a line of spittle from the thin mouth underneath his snouted nose. He made a rather unflattering, pig-like slurping noise before he spoke, "Sorry, sir. It will not happen again, sir." His hands were shaking at his side as his beady black eyes glistened in fear as he took in Rhysand's night-kissed form.

Rhysand glowered at him, allowing more of his night to creep out behind him. "What cell are our newest prisoners in, grunt?" His voice was frigid.

"Uh, cells 12-16, sir. But they are not be touched until later today sir, her majesties orders- "

"I am well aware of her orders." Rhysand cut him off. "I will need keys."

"Uh… okay, yes sir." The grunt attempted to pull out his ring of keys, his fingers fumbling. After some time, he managed to hand Rhysand the ring.

Rhysand did not bother to thank him as he turned towards the entrance to the cell block along the wall opposite the antechamber door.

With a quick turn of a key, Rhysand slipped into the cellblock, careful to shut the door behind him only after Nuala and Cerridwan followed behind him. The grunt was staring after him with an open mouth.

Where the rest of the guards were, he did not know or particularly care.

Rhysand forced himself to breath through his mouth as he took in the foul scent of the cell block, full of sick, feces, the smell of terror, exhaustion. The thin fae lights glimmered overhead, and he silently counted as he passed the closed doors to his left. Amarantha had ensured they were well separated and placed a charm in between each block so that the prisoners would never be able to communicate with each other. It was eerily silent as he passed by the cells, no one calling out to him, or even noticing he was there.

Rhysand reached cell 12. He peered inside through the small slot in the door. One of the females from the night before was huddled in the corner. She did not look up as he peered in. She was breathing evenly as though asleep, even with her knees clutched in front of her. Rhysand swallowed quietly and moved on to the next cell.

Cell 13 had the other female in it. As Rhysand looked in, her head snapped up towards the noise. Her eyes were swollen shut, and it was clear she couldn't see. "Who's there?" Her voice rasped. He moved on to the next.

Cell 14 contained the brown haired, High Fae male. As Rhysand peered into his cell, he saw that the male was unconscious. He clearly had not been moved since they threw him in the night before, his face pressed to the floor, his arm trapped underneath his shoulder. His breathing was swallow, his heartrate slow and irregular.

Rhysand would have been surprised if he made it to whatever Amarantha's plan was later today. He had but hours on this earth.

 _Perfect._

With some jiggling of the keys, Rhysand unlocked his door, allowing himself into the cell. Nuala and Cerridwan followed behind him. He closed the door behind him, blinking as they appeared in the air on either side of him. Together they looked down at this male. The twins said nothing.

Rhysand's heart was beating hard in his chest as he carefully shifted the male's weight so that he was playing on his back. He peered down at the male's face, broken and bruised. One of his legs was deformed, bending the wrong way. He looked young, and completely unfamiliar to Rhysand.

Perhaps one of Tarquin's young friends.

Rhysand held a hand out, and a gleaming knife appeared in his hand. Then, he attempted to enter the male's mind. It was easy as butter, the male was lost somewhere in his conscious. His brain was struggling, being crushed by his own body if Rhysand was to judge.

He sealed soul away into a corner of his mind. He took away the male's ability to feel pain, just in case.

Then, he pounced down on the male's neck with his knife.

His head came off with a swift blow to the neck. Rhysand stared down at his body, watching the red blood pour out of him. He counted the man's heartbeats until he heard nothing but devastating silence from him. His hands were shaking, his knife still loosely gripped in his right hand.

How could he stomach this? How could he continue to do this?

With a sigh out of his nose, Rhysand bent down, gripped the male's head in one hand, using his powers to open the man's eyes in a look of terror. Then, nodding at Nuala and Cerridwan, they headed back out of his cell.

He took one step after the other, pacing his way to the antechamber, Rhysand still gripping his head in one hand. The grunt was still staring at the door as Rhysand pushed through it, obviously having some internal battle. His mouth opened in a noiseless gasp as he saw the still bleeding head in Rhysand's hand.

"Sir, she- I-" He was trying to find his sanity.

"Tell them that I claimed one as my own personal toy. And I grew bored of playing." Rhysand smiled at him nastily. He threw the keys at the grunt. "His body is still back there. Do something with it."

The grunt stared at him for one more moment, before stumbling into the cell block.

Rhysand took only a moment to place the brand in the fireplace. His own brand made as a gift for his loyalty by Amarantha. A mountain range, with three stars about it. _Night Court._

Nuala and Cerridwan appeared again at his side.

"I will winnow you in. I just need Tamlin to know who it is from." Rhysand muttered, staring into the fire. He could feel the heat of blood on his hands.

They nodded.

"Somebody needed to warn him. Let him know she is ready for him." He said by way of excuse, watching as the brand heated to red hot.

Nuala took the head from him as he pulled the brand from the fire.

Then, carefully, he burned the brand into the skin behind the man's ear.

His stomach turned at the smell of burning flesh.

"Let's go."

Rhysand gripped both of their hands as Nuala still had a hold of the man's head.

And they winnowed to the outskirts of Spring Court, as close to the manor as he could get without breaking the wards.

Nuala and Cerridwan disappeared again, traveling shadow to shadow. Only the scent of blood marked their presence.

A few minutes of lurking in the brush outside of the gates, Nuala and Cerridwan reappeared.

They opened their mind to show him, the head, a perfect warning, spiked on top of a fountain statue in the garden of the manor.

 _How ostentatious_.

Blood was still seeping from it, slipping down the bill of a heron as water splashed around it.

Rhysand nodded his approval and held out his hand as he winnowed them again back to Under the Mountain.

* * *

When Rhysand winnowed back, he ate lunch and trained. He was waiting, waiting, waiting on Amarantha. She would share his plans with him when she wanted to, but he was finding that he was not the patient type.

He knew that she had left those prisoners alive for a reason. And he wanted to know why.

Amarantha usually did not have the patience to leave prisoners alive for a long, especially those she didn't care to break. Most of her prisoners existed to break _others_ , not the creature she was torturing.

He wondered what she had in store, and if she would be upset at his morning activities.

Rhysand had just finished bathing and was adjusting the cuffs on his tunic when Amarantha entered his personal room. A part of him winced as he saw her enter his door from the mirror, but he planted a trained, seductive smile as she stood behind him.

He turned to face her, holding out a hand for her take if she wanted it.

Rhysand knew to hold the head of the snake before picking it up.

She did not take his hand, but she cocked her head at him, her red hair falling to the side.

"I have been told that you killed one of my new prisoners this morning. Why?" Her voice was soft, cautious.

They were on dangerous grounds.

"I was growing bored. You did not let me participate in the fun last night, so I took in upon myself to find some entertainment. Unfortunately, my entertainment did not last as long as I hoped." Rhysand was grinning, showing her his teeth.

She looked at him for a long moment. "Where did you take his head?"

"I wanted a trophy." Rhysand glanced behind him, towards the hearth. A charred, unrecognizable head was stuck to the poker.

Rhysand had asked Nuala and Cerridwan to find him a head. He wasn't sure where they had found it, but they showed up with one, none the less.

"A trophy." Amarantha repeated. She appraised him, her eyes sparkling in amusement. "I must keep you better occupied, my pet." She held out a hand.

Rhysand gripped her hand, pulling her close to him, trailing kissing along her pale neck. His stomach turned, but he hoped she couldn't smell the relief on him.

"How so?" Rhysand asked eventually, only when she was panting from need.

She swallowed. "You will see tomorrow. Tonight, I plan on sending the remaining traitors to the boarder of Summer and Spring Court. A final homecoming." She smiled and leaned her head back as Rhysand distracted her.

"I do hope Tamlin will be there, as it is his boarder as well. Shame that you and I can't be there... But I will be seeing him soon enough."

"And what are you plans for us?" Rhysand roamed down her arm, holding his breath.

"Tonight, we will be preparing for a journey. Tomorrow afternoon you and I will be paying the Winter Court the visit it deserves."

Rhysand hoped she didn't notice the pause in his lips.

Cauldron, help them all. Too late, Rhysand realized that he had sent the head to the wrong court.

No one could warn them.

* * *

Rhysand took his time with Amarantha, making her enjoy it like his life depended on it. Someone's did. But no matter how he enticed her, no matter how he enthralled her, she did not want the Winter Court to visit them here. Not where he could better control things…

He was careful, so careful not to seem desperate but… he didn't know what was coming.

But he knew it was going to be particularly cruel.

Rhysand didn't like to be outside of the know, and Amarantha refused to tell him about the 'surprise'.

She seemed to think he would enjoy it. Or perhaps, she knew he wouldn't but wanted to see how far she could push him.

His stomach was churning as he dressed that morning. He went through his morning routine half-heartedly, unable to force any food down his gullet.

Rhysand had only slightly bruised that morning opponent as he couldn't focus.

To make matters worse, the visions were harder to hold off today than before. He had awoken to her dreaming about painting pigs of all things, her scent once again stuffed up his nose. Then, as he had been trying to get breakfast down, he saw a vision of an overview of a beautiful garden. He quickly had shoved his way out of this vision, hoping no one noticed as the water he had been holding up to his mouth dribbled down his immaculate black shirt.

Something was changing. Something was waiting. Something was coming.

After a day of subtly stressing, Amarantha had called him to the throne room. She was wearing leather pants for once, and a long white tunic with gold trim. Upon her head sat her crown, the thorns sticking out fiercely from her head. Rhysand casually strolled in, the throne room unusually empty.

When she saw him come in, the night twinkling in his wake, she had smiled wickedly.

"Time for us to go. I don't want to be late." Amarantha gripped his arm as she reached his side and winnowed them out from under the mountain.

Rhysand hadn't been ready, having rarely been winnowed by another. He felt a quick jolt in his stomach as his feet hit snow covered ground.

His feet had made a sharp crunch, while Amarantha was almost completely silent. She was still smiling as she turned away from him, taking in their surroundings.

They were standing outside of a wooden building, fairly ornate for its secluded surroundings. There were two large stained-glass windows in which water-colored rainbow light poured out onto the snow. It was growing dark outside already, the snow glistening only from the light of the windows. It was a thin coating, just enough to cover everything in a blanket of ivory. The crisp hair bit his face, and he pulled his magic around him to protect him from the cold.

Around the single-floor building, leafless trees stood watch. Rhysand did not see any other sign of life.

 _What were they doing in the middle of Winter Court at dusk? Why were they standing in a field in the middle of no-where, just the two of them?_

"Don't look so inquisitive. I promise this secret will only go on for a few minutes longer." She crooned at him, stalking to the entrance of the building.

Rhysand followed behind her, forcing his leaden feet to move him forward. The snow crunched beneath their steps.

Despite the cold, Rhysand did not feel it.

She opened the door with a quick blast of her magic. The door was blown to bits.

From inside, he heard a high-pitched scream and several squeals.

That sounded like-

As Rhysand reached the doorway, his heart caught in his throat.

Amarantha had an ancient, white-haired High Fae female pinned to the stained glass by the neck. The force in which she had forced her against the glass had cracked it. The woman was a priestess, long blue gown flowing down her small form. Her diadem had fallen to the floor, the hood away from her face.

Behind them, cowering in the corner of the room were younglings. Children. High Fae, all of them.

The oldest were perhaps 40, standing slightly taller than the others, but still their lips were quivering.

There were… twenty. No, twenty-three. Twenty-four, Rhysand realized as he quickly counted them all.

Twenty-four younglings in the same room as the Red Witch.

The small part of his soul that was left was screaming at the wrongness.

The children were cowering, some whimpering, the smallest ones outright crying.

A small female was sobbing in the arms of one of the taller boys. The boy, although shaking was looking Rhysand in the eye as he wrapped his arms around his sister.

A female, almost as tall as the boys had several of the smallest ones pinned to the wall behind her. Protecting them. Her hair was as dark as his, her eyes blue. Her lips were set in a firm line, her feet spread in a fighting stance. The way she held herself reminded him of… he could not think her name. Not here.

The dusk light was now shining through the window behind them, casting the children in all different shades of color.

This was a classroom, Rhysand realized. A school.

Amarantha had brought him to a _school_.

Rhysand cleared his expression of horror that he was sure had given him away, looking to Amarantha. But she was not looking at him.

She was staring directly into the eyes of the ancient female.

"Hello, ancient one. I hope you know who I am. And who he is." Amarantha glanced over at him, the female meeting his eyes with horror. Her eyes were ice blue.

"Perhaps you wonder why we are here, priestess. Your High Lord has been very naughty, you see, and need punishing. As I do not feel like dealing with a new High Lord, I have decided to spare his life. In exchange for a few others." Amarantha was grinning, her eyes having an odd gleam in them that Rhysand had not seen in 49 years.

"It is such as shame… so much potential. But a price must be paid."

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, no…. don't._

Rhysand was filled with horror, so much unfathomable terror. He couldn't, this was too much, he couldn't-

"Amarantha. Perhaps there is another way." Rhysand was surprised to hear his voice sounded steady. He felt like a knot on the inside. Like someone had scrambled his insides. He stared at her, his hands like claws at his side. She _couldn't_ make him…

"There is no other way." Amarantha snapped at him, her grip on the female tightening until her face was blue-

"Please." Rhysand found himself begging again.

"I thought you were bored, Rhysand? Don't tell me that my most loyal servant has lost his thirst for blood?" Amarantha's dark eyes were like arrows through his chest.

"No, I just… they're younglings. Innocent."

"My sister was innocent when Jurian butchered her for being faerie. I do not show mercy, Rhysand." And she was pulling his power away from him, his knees were so weak, he would fall, his shield over Velaris was failing, the connection that warded his Court was failing-

"No! I'll do it." Rhysand gasp. He couldn't, but he must…

Amarantha smile grew, bearing her teeth in an animalistic snarl.

The children they were still sobbing, so scared, so innocent…

 _Think, Rhysand. Think, there must be a way, think…_

But he stood there, Amarantha staring at him, and he could think of nothing. He wasn't strong enough to winnow away twenty-four children, and even if he did Velaris would fall, his friends, his Court… A millennium of protection would fail because of him.

There was no way out. No way he could stop this.

He was at Amarantha's mercy. And these children… they were in his.

"Please, sir." The dark-haired girl was speaking to him. "Please, do not hurt us. Let us go." _Like Livana, she was so much like his sister…_

The girl was holding up a feeble shield against them, a shield of wind and cold.

 _Velaris… His Court…_

 _He would bow to no one and nothing but his crown._

So Rhysand prepared his soul for the breaking that that surely would follow. No one should be allowed to live, to be sane after _this._

He burned through her shield.

Then, he reached a hand out. And gently grasp twenty-four minds in his claws. Several thrashed against his grip, but he brushed a calming finger across their mind. He took away their fear, their pain. The children were no longer crying, just staring blankly at him.

"Break them, Rhysand. I want Kallias to see the results of his actions in full." Amarantha purred at him.

She tightened her grip on the female until he heard a quiet snap. The ancient female crumpled to the floor, her icy eyes staring into nothingness.

Rhysand swallowed, felling those precious souls in his mental claws.

Then, he closed his eyes.

 _Cauldron, forgive me._

Rhysand took the first child alone, seeing who they were. Seeing that they liked to sleep with the light on for fear of the dark. That their favorite thing to do was play with their ice magic on a pond near their house. And then he wiped his soul from existence.

He could feel his heart crackling, breaking in his chest.

He went to the next child, a little boy whose eyes were still red from crying. He had liked playing with a snow spirits, having a special gift with the wind and the weather. Then, like smoothing out a wrinkle from a shirt, his soul was gone as well.

His heart was a hole. A gaping hole.

Rhysand did this twenty-one times, until his soul was cracked itself. Until he was a shell, until he was swallowing his tears from Amarantha.

There was only one left.

The girl with the raven-colored locks. She was the youngest in her family, a gift from the Cauldron. She enjoyed wrestling with her older brothers. Her gift was of wind, and she was miles above the other students. She was wild and courageous.

And Rhysand brushed a soft claw against her consciousness, and the wild, raven-haired girl was gone too.

As the children stood, looking forward into nothingness and their mouths open, Amarantha began laughing.

Rhysand, for the first time in fifty years, wondered if his reasons were enough.

* * *

Poor Rhys. Please review :)


	6. An Interrupted Lunch

Hello everyone!

I'm sorry for the lack of update for so long, life has been kind of crazy here.

We got a new couch. I visited a friend who is furloughed right now.

It's been great fun.

I hope that you will excuse my tardiness with an extra-long chapter this week. :)

P.S. This chapter is based off of Chapter 26 of ACOTAR, so it's extra important to remember that not all of this is my word, and this whole Fae-universe was created by our Queen, S. J. Maas.

Enjoy and review!

* * *

Rhysand could still feel their eyes looking at him in horror. He felt dirty, not the kind of dirty you could wash away but the kind that no matter how many times you wash never goes away.

He had laid in his room that night, Amarantha for once not calling him to her chambers.

They had winnowed back into the throne room, Amarantha clutching his hand as she laughed. The children had sunk to the floor of the class room, the stain glass windows soaking them in color. Their eyes were blank, staring open. They did not move, they did not speak, they did not react. Their brains made their bodies live: their chests rose and fell with their breaths, their heart's kept beating. But in this state, they simply were, simply existed. No souls were left inside. Shells.

Amarantha had found that immensely funny. She had smashed through the already cracked stained glass window with a reckless display of power, and while still giggling madly, shot a wild display of white sparks into the night sky directly through the shattered window.

The sparks shimmered across Rhysand's night sky, their reflection shining bright on the snow that lay across the fields that surrounded them. Only the barren trees seemed to gobble up the light.

Rhysand shifted his gaze from out that shattered window back to her, knowing that he should be laughing with her. He should be smirking, should be putting on a show but he couldn't bring himself to do more than stare at her, his hands fists at his side.

He needed to put on a show, something to convince her of his loyalty to protect… prote… _pro…_

 _Breath. Just breath, Rhys._ A small part of him was whispering to the rest.

Amarantha then waved a lazy hand, a piece of parchment paper appearing in the air. She caught it as it appeared, and then with a _pop_ it was nailed to the door, still left open. Letting the snow and cold air sweep in behind them, the buttery light of the classroom seeping out the door into the night.

"A message for Kallias." Amarantha said as way of explanation, brushing her hands as if they were dirty on her tunic. "Let us be off, my pet."

She stepped over the ancient faerie priestess, a heap of blue on the floor. Her face was as blue as her eyes, as they stared, not seeing.

Rhysand was still staring at Amarantha blankly. His heartbeat was deafening in his ears. Rhysand felt her hand grasp his bicep, and then he something stirred in his stomach, and then they were standing in the darkness of the throne room. The night sky could no longer watch him from here.

"Dear Rhysand, I think we have done excellent work this evening." Amarantha was laughing in his ear. She kissed his cheek, leaving his face burning from where her lips had touched. Amarantha then patted his arm twice before she strolled merrily towards the exit. As she walked, she waved her hand, transforming her cloths into a deep burgundy dress.

"Why don't you take some time to prepare for the return of my High lords? I have some things I need to address this evening," she said, not looking back at him.

She left him standing in the throne room, feeling blank, feeling dirty, _feeling_. The door made a soft click behind her.

What had he done? _What had he done?_

Rhysand thought he was whispering to himself as he tried to breath, his breaths coming much too quick in his chest, and there was so much darkness in this room, no stars, no light in the darkness, and he _couldn't breath, he couldn't BREATH, he couldn't-_

Rhysand felt his knees hit the hard floor of the throne room, but he couldn't see his knees, why couldn't he _see,_ or _breath_ , but his face felt wet and his stomach was rolling-

He felt firm hands grip him underneath his arms, his wings, they were out, they were exposed people could _see him_ , see his wings, who he was, what he cared for and he needed _air_ -

"My lord, we are taking you to your room, please stop fighting us", a quiet, secret-filled voice was whispering in his ear, struggling to hold his left arm.

Rhysand stopped struggling. _Nuala and Cerridwan…_ his wraiths.

He felt oddly light, but his wings were out, he could feel them touching the floor. He started counting his traitorous breaths, gasping as they were, his heartbeats, painful and shrill in his ears…

But then he could see again, at least see feet that were being dragged across a stone floor, the stone floor in his room, and that was his rug…

They placed him gently his bed, his wings being crushed under him, so he quickly shifted out of their grasp and fighting the panic in his chest. He ripped the shirt off that was strangling him, leaning so his elbows were on his knees, his face gripped in between his hands. He felt two sets of feather-light hands touch his own, giving a calming pat, and then the touch was gone. He could hear nothing but the roaring in his ears.

He could feel their eyes, their innocent, scared little eyes staring at him…

Rhysand vomited off the side of his bed.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe…_

He focused only on his breathing and the stone colored floor, now wet with his sick.

One, two, three, four… He counted his breaths.

Until he could breathe again without gasping.

Until his heart was no longer ripping itself from his chest.

Until he could control his power, shoving it down, down, down…

When he was in control, when his wings were away from sight and he could see around his room without his sight being clouded by his own darkness, Rhysand looked up.

He waved a hand and the mess of his sick disappeared.

He felt like a wrung-out rag now, his stomach now feeling painfully empty.

The perfect pairing for his soul.

After the panic subsided, Rhysand was tired, but he could not sleep. He could not close his eyes without seeing their own. So, he laid on his back, thankfully free from his duplicitous wings, and watched the dust swirl around his room. He listened to the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

If he listened hard enough, he thought he could hear heart wrenching sobs all the way from the Winter Court.

* * *

As always, the seamless night of the mountain passed slowly and then ended much too abruptly. It seemed that most things happened in a way that was baroque, at once too much but also not enough. He had laid in bed, his mind passing from place to place, from Velaris, to the Winter Court suffering unfathomable loss, to the Spring Court where Tamlin hid amongst his roses. He watched a small speck of ash float from his smoldering fire, past his favorite red armchair and was now dancing above his bed, spurred on by the blowing of his breaths.

Rhysand was trying to find that part of him, that wall he had built, that allowed him to survive Amarantha. It seemed that the moment that mortal woman had looked into his eyes that his walls had dissolved… leaving him vulnerable to feel, to hate, to long for things that he should be able to ignore. Things that he _had_ been able to ignore. Ever since he had left her on Calanmai he felt like a scab, like an open sore that despite rest and medicine would not heal. Just when he thought he could do this again, that he was strong again, his wound ripped back open, bleeding and festering. Every time he did as Amarantha wanted… he felt impure or spoiled like fruit sitting in the hot summer sun.

Velaris… his home… his family… his friends… they needed him. They needed him to the be unfeeling, perfect minion of the crimson witch. Through his loyalty, through his sweet lies, flattery, through his touch, his body, he served his court. That part was the easy part, the serving. It was just much easier when he didn't have to think so damn much about it afterwards.

Rhysand stood from his bed, shaking off the aches from laying in one place for so long. He slipped into his bathing room, taking a quick bath. He scrubbed his body down efficiently, enjoying the hot water against his skin. Bleeding some warmth into him. He dressed quickly afterwards, his usual black and silver attire immaculate. He efficiently removed any semblance of stubble, used his powers to cover the deep purple bruises under his eyes. Magic could only do so much however; his skin was pale as always. When he exited his bathroom, he was only slightly surprised to find Amarantha in his room.

She was sprawled out in his red chair, her feet tucked underneath her, her black heels abandoned on the floor. She was wearing a dress as usual, this one a deep emerald green and loosely cut. It was gathered around her. She rested one elbow on the arm on the chair, supporting her chin with her fist while her other hand twirled a curl of her burgundy hair around her finger. "Nice of you to join me," she grinned at him gleefully. "I was worried that you had forsaken me after our little tiff last night."

Rhysand just cocked his head to the side, debating on how to reply. Amarantha was rarely so… vivacious. Girlish.

"Of course, then I heard the water running. And here you are." She was still smiling at him in her odd way. She smiled at him the way a predator smiled at its food.

"Here I am." Rhysand repeated. Then, he came back to life. "Clean." He smiled, spreading his hands out in front of him. She stood, approaching him. She was shorter than he remembered without her heels.

Amarantha had her lips pressed against his, what a curse and a blessing it was to be able to control her emotions although he could not control her mind. She would always come back, not entirely of her own choice. His lips pressed back into hers, and his hands traveling through her hair, down her neck and her arms. His power flowed from his fingertips into her skin, making her feel so much more than she would with any other lover.

With some effort, she broke away from him, her dark eyes burning. Some sick part of him enjoyed that he at least had this power over her.

"I came to you because I have need for you, my pet." Rhysand, pushing down his disgust, grinned in a seductive way, sliding a hand up her leg, underneath her dress, distracting-

"No." Amarantha shoved him off. This time he swallowed his fury.

She brushed her hands down her dress and turning away from him, slipped her feet into her heels. She was only a few inches shorter than him again. How could a tiny little woman like her, weak, her power nothing command to his own, how could she-

Rhysand stopped his thoughts before his rage could swallow him whole. He smiled at her crooked, a well-practiced mask. "How can I be of service?" His placed his hands behind his back, looking like ever the loyal servant.

"You have been an asset to me over the past few months, my love. As you know, our little trial with Tamlin is coming to an end. You have such a _way_ with Tamlin, and came back so successful from Calanmai… I would like you to check in with your brother. You were such great friends all those years ago, I think he would enjoy a visit from you. Afterall, it would remind him of the good times he has to look forward to after he joins us." She smiled at him, her teeth away. She was fiddling with her ring, Jurian's eye being dizzyingly spun.

 _Tamlin._ Of course. The one that got away from her… for at least a little bit. The one that had gotten away from her had always been the one she had wanted the most.

"Of course." Rhysand inclined his head. "When?"

"Now. This morning. Time is of the essence." She waved a lazy hand, her eyes scrapping his own.

Rhysand nodded. He grabbed a bit of dried meat that had been brought into his room for breakfast from the table, as she looked at him expectantly. As he chewed, he grinned at her, well-aware she could see the food in his mouth.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." Rhysand smirked at her, speaking through the food in his mouth. He grabbed an apple and gripped it as he began to fold the earth around him.

Amarantha was looking at him with a mixture of desire and disgust before he winnowed fully outside of the manor in the Spring Court. Rhysand laughed grimly at himself as his well-polished black boots landed in the lush grass.

* * *

Rhysand winnowed closer to the manor than he usually would. He appeared on the road leading to the manor, the gate just fifty feet from where he had appeared. The sun was yellow and warm overhead, the temperature cool and comfortable. He brushed his apple against his shirt, buffing it until it glowed a deep red. The cobblestones were uniform, much different than they had been all those years ago… a different time in which his father had led the way into the manor. Each side of the road was mirrored with apple trees, their branches not yet heavy with the seasons fruit. The apple trees were dotted with magnolia trees in full bloom, their pink flowers swaying in a soft breeze.

Ahead, the entrance to the manor house that Tamlin enjoyed sulking about was the same as it always had been. The iron gates, ornate and pompous were closed, and sentries were on each side. The sentries were chatting, not yet noticing the High Lord in their midst. The taller one had his hand on his sword as he chatted animatedly. A stone wall stretched out from either side around them.

Rhysand smirked, taking every part of that anger at his family's murder, every bit of that anger for the control Amarantha held over each of them, and threw it into his resolve. Amarantha wanted to threaten Tamlin, so Rhysand would play both sides as usual, giving Tamlin his warning in the version of a threat. If he wasn't going to lie to himself, he knew he would enjoy every bit of it anyway.

"Hello, boys." Rhysand grinned viciously at the sentries. He was tossing his apple several feet in the air, catching it as it fell level with his chest.

They both jumped at his voice, very much surprised by his appearance. _The question is to surprise Tamlin, or to let him tremble at the thought of my approach… perhaps a little of both._

The shorter sentry had gripped his sword, taking in Rhysand's dark form, the night the surrounded him.

Rhysand gripped their minds before they bothered to draw their swords, ebbing their minds into a deep sleep.

Then, he pushed through the gate, making his way through the blooming garden, trying not to think about how different the manor looking during the day as opposed to the night, how Tamlin's mother had screamed… That night was something he continued to struggle to forget.

Rhysand crunched on his apple as he walked, Tamlin's garden falling suspiciously silent as Rhysand ripped through each of Tamlin's wards. Servants and members of his court alike softly fell to the ground as he quickly took their minds, lulling them to a peaceful slumber.

As he finally approached the door, he surveyed the faeries around the property. An impressive amount of people that Tamlin had managed to keep out of Amarantha's grasp. Perhaps Rhysand _could_ learn something from Tamlin after all.

Rhysand tossed the core of the apple over his shoulder, then brushing his tunic flat, he forced the door open with a blast of dark power. Then, with a single sweep of his darkness, another group of minds were soothed into a deep slumber. Except for a select few in the center of Tamlin's manor, the Spring Court was in a dreamless sleep… he sensed them in Tamlin's dining room, a room he had not been in. He kept the minds in that area safe, after all, he was nothing if not practical. He may entice Tamlin into sharing his meal with him. It would be in poor taste to incapacitate _all_ Tamlin's servants. The dried meat and apple were fighting in his stomach, which was still churning from the night before.

A deep, visceral snarl tore through the manor. Rhysand's smile wasn't a complete fraud. Tamlin had always been male for dramatics. Really, it was piss-poor security though, that Tamlin had just noticed Rhysand's presence, the fact that his wards were down. Perhaps Tamlin _was_ losing it.

Rhysand began a leisurely stroll to the dining room, taking in the ornate rugs, the polished marble of the halls. The paintings on the walls were ancient and lavish, their frames gleaming from frequent polishing. It wasn't exactly Rhysand's style, but it was beautiful in a way. Shame, Tamlin hadn't changed a thing about the manor from centuries ago. As he breathed in, the hallway smelled of lemon cleaner, roses, and then underneath all of that was a vaguely familiar scent. Lilac and perhaps something sweeter?

At last he reached the open doors, his boots scuffing softly on the polished marble floors. Tamlin was sitting at the head of the dining table, smaller than it used to be, slouching in some attempt to look imperious. He was picking at his nails with a long claw, the baldric of Illyrian knives Rhysand had gifted him many years ago strung across his chest. That enough was to make Rhysand's lip curl. Otherwise, he looked much the same as he had forty-nine years ago, his long blonde hair falling over his shoulders, his skin still tan and untouched by the darkness of Under the Mountain. His green mask was still firmly stuck on, much to Rhysand's own pleasure. While he was here, Rhysand was suffering at Amarantha's hands, killing innocents, torturing prisoners and acting as her lover. While Tamlin ate _lavish meals_ , and enjoyed the _spring sun_ , and trained with the knives Rhysand had given him… Rhysand was suffering, sacrificing. The Cauldron swirled in odd ways.

Yes, taunting Tamlin was something he would enjoy.

Lucien, Tamlin's loyal emissary and the youngest son of Beron, High Lord of Autumn Court was perched by the window. He was holding his usual jeweled sword, the origins of which Rhysand did not know. _Holding,_ as Rhysand could hardly called it wielding, with the tip nearly cutting up the bottom of the curtains. Lucien's mask was crafted after a fox, ornate and perfect for the cleverest of Beron's sons. Clever enough to get another High Lord to take him under his wing rather than attempt to fight Eris and his other brothers for the right to live… His long, red hair was tied back with a leather band, his metal eye whirling as it looked interestedly at something in the garden.

Rhysand remembered the day he lost that eye.

Lucien didn't know how to play Amarantha's games.

Rhysand had learned a few lessons from Lucien's loss.

Rhysand entered the dining room, stopping only a few feet from Tamlin.

"High Lord," Rhysand crooned, inclining his head in Tamlin's direction.

Tamlin snapped his green eyes up from his nails, the free claw slipping back under his skin. It seemed that Tamlin had learned a little more control of his shifting in the few centuries in which Rhysand had been away. He glared at Rhysand.

"What do you want, Rhysand?" He hissed.

Rhysand smiled, showing his teeth. He placed an abashed hand on his chest, "Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don't see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me Rhysand? Only my prisoners and enemies call me that." Rhysand repeated what he had once told Kallias, the truth mixing in with the lies. His grin widened as he saw a flush come over Tamlin's face, remembering the betrayal at Tamlin's hands.

Rhysand turned towards Lucien, who had hardly looked up from his post at the window. Odd. "A fox mask. Appropriate for you, Lucien."

"Go to Hell, Rhys," Lucien snapped in his direction, his eye whipping to take in Rhysand's form.

"Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble," Rhysand said drily, turning back towards the High Lord. "I hope I wasn't interrupting."

"We were in the middle of lunch," Tamlin said with venom. His eyes were glaring at Rhysand.

"Stimulating," Rhysand purred, cocking his head to the side.

"What are you doing here, Rhys?" Tamlin grumbled at him, shifting his place in the seat.

"I wanted to check up on you. I wanted to see how you were faring. If you got my little present." Rhysand grinned.

"Your present was unnecessary."

"But a nice reminder of the fun days, wasn't it?" Rhysand reminded Tamlin of his days as a ruthless warband leader, just as Rhys had been. Just as Rhys had _taught_ him to be. He clicked his tongue impatiently and took the opportunity to look around the room. "Almost half a century holed up in a country estate. I don't know how you managed it. But," he turned back to Tamlin, "you're such a stubborn bastard that this must have seemed like a paradise compared to Under the Mountain. I suppose it is. I'm surprised, though: forty-nine years, and no attempts to save yourself or your lands. Even now that things are getting interesting again."

"There's nothing to be done," Tamlin grumbled at him, turning his eyes from Rhysand to the floor.

Rhysand was filled with rage. How could he just lay down, just take this? What kind of cruel joke was that he had to depend on his enemy, the stubborn, foolish, _weak_ enemy to save them all?

Rhysand approached him, turning his rage to that lethal edge. He stopped only when he could feel Tamlin's breath on his face. "What a pity that you must endure the brunt of it, Tamlin- and an even greater pity that you're so resigned to your fate. You might be stubborn, but this is pathetic. How different the High Lord is from the brutal war-band leader of centuries ago." He whispered in Tamlin's face, letting some of that bottomless rage simmer to the surface.

Lucien growled from the corner, "What do you know about anything? You're just Amarantha's whore."

"Her whore I might be, but not without my reasons." Mixing the lies with the truth was Rhysand's preferred style of lies, but he couldn't keep the bite of his rage out of his words. "At least I haven't bided my time among the hedges and flowers while the world has gone to Hell."

Lucien raised his sword slightly, the tip now a few inches above the floor. Rhysand almost snorted. "If you think that's all I've been doing, you'll soon learn otherwise."

Rhysand moved out of Tamlin's face, focusing his attention now on Lucien fully. "Little Lucien. You certainly gave them something to talk about when you switched to Spring. Such as sad thing, to see your lovely mother in perpetual mourning over losing you." He smiled as he said it.

Lucien's face reddened, his grip on his sword tightening. He pointed his sword at Rhysand fully now. Rhysand wondered how skilled he was at sparing, he must have been able to hold his own against his brothers… Autumn Court was known to be cut-throat.

"Watch your filthy mouth." Lucien snapped.

Rhysand laughed quietly at the sword pointed his direction. He was hit again by the familiar floral, sweet scent. He ignored it. "Is that any way to speak to a High Lord of Prythian?"

Lucien said nothing, Rhysand let his power fill the room. "Come now, Tamlin. Shouldn't you reprimand your lackey for speaking to me like that?"

"I don't enforce rank in my court," Tamlin said from his chair, barely looking up at them. _Weak._

"Still?" Rhysand didn't either, not truly. But Tamlin didn't need to know that. "But it's so entertaining when they grovel. I suppose your father never bothered to show you."

"This isn't the Night Court," Lucien stuck his nose back in the conversation, "And you have no power here- so clear out. Amarantha's bed is growing cold."

Rhysand felt a flicker of white-hot rage shoot up his spine… _Hush now Lucien, the adults are speaking._

He laughed quietly, seizing that anger. Then he was close as he could be to Lucien without throwing him to the ground, his teeth bared in a snarl, and he growled in his face. Lucien flinched away from him. The scent was strong here, maybe it was _Lucien_ who smelled like that?

"I was slaughtering on the battlefield before you were even born," Rhysand snarled at him… then he was in control again, trying to shove back his anger. "Besides," He said as he backed away from Lucien, shoving his hands in his pockets, still absurdly angry, "who do you think taught your beloved Tamlin the finer aspects of swords and females? You can't truly believe he learned everything in his father's little war-camps."

Tamlin rubbed his temples, looking tired and weak, still sloughing in that dining chair. "Save it for another time, Rhys. You'll see me soon enough."

 _Message received then._ Rhysand backed out towards the door, walking slowly, "She's already preparing for you. Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you've already been broken and will reconsider her offer." What was that _scent?_ He passed the table, looking down at their lunch, a single finger running along the back of an empty chair, "I'm looking forward to seeing your face when you-"

 _Wait._ There were three sets of plates here for lunch, not two… one sat before Tamlin himself, the other smelling of the earthy, warm smell of Lucien, but the other smelled… female? There was even half-eaten food sitting their as evidence. So, Tamlin is keeping a secret then.

"Where's your guest?" Rhysand asked quietly. He lifted the half empty goblet, sniffing it once. It smelled so familiar. Like… pears. And Lilac.

"I sent them off when I sensed your arrival," Tamlin was now sitting up, looking at Rhysand with apt attention. Perhaps Rhysand should have taught him how to lie properly.

It couldn't be… lilac and pear, like that mortal woman in the woods. He sniffed again at the air, his eyebrows raising involuntarily. _How… what…_ His magic searched out, looking for the glamour, the metallic stench of magic mixing with her own scent. As he felt it, behind Lucien, he ripped the glamour away.

Starlight eyes were staring into his own, terror covering her beautiful face. The mortal woman from of the woods, the woman from his dreams. She was here, in his second-most enemies house. Dining with them.

 _No. NO._ His excitement turned quickly to rage. He lied, he had tortured those picts to keep her safe, out of Amarantha's reaches and she was here with _Tamlin_.

"You dare glamour me?" Rhysand growled, his eyes unable to look away from her own. She was staring into his soul, stripping him away until he was nothing but bones and a pile of flesh on the ground.

Lucien pinned her into the wall behind him, her eyes still barely visible from over his shoulder. His sword was still pointed at Rhysand. Tamlin at last stood, shoving his chair back so hard that it was knocked over. His claws were out, his teeth long. But he did not approach.

 _Why are you here?_ He wanted to scream at her. "I remember you," he purred at her, his rage shimmering beneath his skin. "It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble." _How can I get her out of here?_ Her scent, lilac and pear, was so strong in his nose, ripping away everything that he had worked for, like smoke in a beehive. But she… she also smelled of roses, spring breeze, magnolias… she smelled like Tamlin. His scent was all over her.

He whipped his head to Tamlin, angry now for a different reason. "Who, pray tell, is your guest?"

"My betrothed," Lucien said quickly. For a heart wrenching second Rhysand wonderedwhat _exactly_ was going on in the Spring Court but then he remembered…

"Oh? Here I was, thinking you still mourned your commoner lover after all these centuries," Rhysand looked back at the woman was starlight eyes, the blue grey depths still filled with such terror at his appearance. _Good,_ he told himself. She should fear him. He approached them both, Lucien tensing.

It was only when Rhysand was in arm's length that Lucien spat at his feet and shoved the sword in between them.

Rhysand smirked at him, letting some of that anger show through. "You draw blood from me, Lucien, and you'll learn how quickly Amarantha's whore can make the entire Autumn Court bleed. Especially its darling Lady." Rhysand was not bluffing. His mortal woman was here, she should never have been here, she should be home safe, wherever the hell that was, and he did not owe the Autumn Court any favors…

Lucien paled, but to his credit did not step away. Rhysand stared at him, smiling cruel. He tilted his head in a predatory gaze.

Tamlin called quickly from behind them, "Put your sword down, Lucien."

Lucien lowered his sword but did not move.

But from this close, Rhysand could see her. She was much the same as before, her long golden hair gleaming down her back, this time free from the braid. It was wavy, the sunlight shining through the window behind her on to her locks, throwing light around the room like a mirror. Her skin was still tanned, her freckles wrinkling as she looked at him in undiluted fear. Her eyebrows were slightly creased together, a thin line forming in between them. She had her lips pushed together in a grimace. But her eyes… as they had before, they took his breath away. She was out of the tunic and leggings, wearing a long green dress, the color of the leaves in the sunlight, cut tightly around her waist, showing off her curves. It covered up her long legs, but her chest and shoulders were out in the sunlight.

She looked at him like he was a monster, like she had when she walked away from him that night.

"I knew you liked to stoop low with your lovers, Lucien, but I never thought you'd actually dabble with mortal trash." The lies slipped past his lips like poison. He could be a monster, he could be a monster, he could be a monster… get her out, get her out, get her out, his mind screamed as he looked at her.

He knew it was not Lucien's scent that was all over her… but she couldn't be the one.

Her face turned beat red at his comment, from shame or anger he couldn't tell. The rage seeping from Lucien came off in waves. Lucien _really_ didn't like him. "The Lady of the Autumn Court will be grieved indeed when she hears of her youngest son. If I were you, I'd keep your new pet well away from your father." Rhysand knew there was no connection there, he could sense sour tinge of shame seeping through Lucien's mind even now and he couldn't help himself.

"Leave, Rhys," Tamlin growled behind him. Rhysand didn't even bother to turn. Tamlin, his anger an endless torrent behind his shields, would not be foolish enough to enforce his command. Even now, Tamlin knew that Rhysand could kill them all of he wanted. Rhysand had always been stronger, quicker, more cunning than Tamlin.

This woman… He was skimming through her mind quickly. And he saw, he saw how Tamlin took her from her home, he saw how she had fended for herself in the woods all those years, he saw how she killed the wolf. Rhysand saw how she had snuck out of the manor at Calanmai, how Tamlin protected her and was attempting to court her rather poorly.

Rhysand saw how Tamlin had bit her neck in the hallway after Calanmai, claiming her. He saw how Tamlin had kissed her in a field on Summer Solstice. He saw how her cheeks blushed when she looked him, how butterflies flew in her stomach under the force of his gaze…

Rhysand knew. He knew then that he needed to scare them, scare her, scare Tamlin, be the monster that they thought he was. Scare them enough of his power, of Amarantha's power that _one_ of them would not be foolish enough to keep her. She should have run so long ago, after seeing that monster in the woods on Calanmai.

So, Rhysand brushed Lucien aside as if he were a piece of furniture. Lucien, surprisingly, was smart enough not to struggle against him.

She was cluttering a table knife as if it was her only lifeline, her knuckles white against her emerald dress. Her breath was coming much too fast as she stared at him. Her fear took his breath away.

Rhysand approached her, gripping her hands gently between his own. He hadn't touched her since Calanmai, he couldn't help himself, he had wondered for so long what her skin would feel like against his own- _focus._ He pried the knife gently out from her grip, tossing it to the side. He stared into her galaxy eyes. "That won't do you any good, anyway. If you were wise, you would be screaming and running from this place, from these people. It's a wonder that you're still here, actually." _Run, run, run,_ he wanted to beg her. Get away from them, get away from _her._

Her forehead wrinkle deepened. Her mind was blank, lost in his eyes and in her fear. She was thinking about a _blight?_

He couldn't help the laugh that tore out of him. Yes, thinking of Amarantha as a blight was accurate. "Oh, she doesn't know, does she?"

She was trembling, _smelling of Tamlin,_ wearing his cloths, living in his house. It was unbearable.

Then, it clicked. Tamlin did not have this girl here to court her, out of his own pleasure. He wanted her to break to curse, to love him, to _free him_ …

Maybe… maybe the Cauldron hadn't showed her to Rhysand because she was supposed to be his. Maybe the Cauldron had been trying to him the woman that would save them, be their salvation.

All Rhysand could think was… Not her. _Not her. Not her._

"You have seconds, Rhys," Tamlin warned. "Seconds to get out." He was still standing behind them, doing nothing, like the useless oaf he was.

She moved her gaze from Rhysand to look at Tamlin, and her express changed. Softened. Like… Like she _loved_ him.

Rhysand's stomach turned. And then he knew he was going to do something very stupid. She was _his._ He hadn't claimed her, but he wanted her, and she was supposed to be _his._ How could the Cauldron decide that the one he wanted, the one he thought was supposed to be made for him, was for Tamlin?

And even if she did break the curse… Amarantha would escape, just as she always avoided the consequences to her actions. Tamlin, once the curse would break, would toss her to the side as if she was nothing at worst… and at best, she would be hunted by Amarantha to the end of her days.

Because Amarantha would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. And she wanted _Tamlin._

So Rhysand decide he would do everything in his power to save her from Amarantha's clutches.

Even if he gave up their freedom for it. Even if he gave up his salvation, Prythian's salvation. This mortal woman wasn't meant to be part of this.

"If I were you, I wouldn't speak to me like that." Rhysand was speaking before he knew what he was saying.

Then, he was seizing her fragile, gentle, little human mind.

She straightened, her chest rising as her spine obeyed his will. He… could feel her blood in her veins. He could feel just how fragile her bones were. How fragile her heart was. He gripped her whole existence in those mental claws of his and smirked at Tamlin.

Tamlin straightened, his eyes wide. "Let her go." There was panic seeping from behind those mental hedges. "Enough." His voice was weak.

"I'd forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells," Rhysand threatened… he approached her, circling around the mortal woman. He ran a gentle finger across the base of her throat, making a show of it. She was shaking, her eyes showing the endless depths of her terror from the monster before her. "Look at how delightful she is- look how she's trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise."

His heart aches as he spit these words out, felt how her mind winced in fear. How her stomach churned.

"She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin," he said quietly, "She's wondered about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs – between them, too." He laughed, shoving a vicious type of fury down in his chest. He turned towards Tamlin as she trembled in his claws. "I'm curious: Why did she wonder if it would feel good to have you bite her breast the way you bit her neck?" Rhysand's stomach was turning as he found these truths in her memories… it was unbearable.

Tamlin looked as though he could barely tolerate it either. "Let. Her. Go." Tamlin growled out, his face twisted in rage… but he did not move. Did not brush Rhysand off her. Did not do more than growl and glower.

She had wondered what love was, if what she felt for Tamlin was love. That part of her memory, Rhysand closed quickly. Some feral beast in his chest was roaring.

"If it's any consolation," Rhysand murmured, "She would have been the one for you- and you might have gotten away with it. A bit late, though. She's more stubborn than you are."

He held her mind in his claws, brushing a talon gently across her existence. Then he let her go.

She dropped to the floor like a rock, sucking in deep breaths of the air. She was gripping the floor between her fingertips, her hair falling over her face. She was gasping, trying to reign in her panic.

"Amarantha will enjoy breaking her," What Rhysand said was true, painfully true. "Almost as much as she'll enjoy watching _you_ as she shatters her bit by bit."

 _Remember this. Remember how powerless you feel. This is every bit as powerless as we will both feel if Amarantha gets her hands on her…_

Rhysand wondered if Tamlin loved her back. Or if he was just using her for means of breaking the curse. He hoped he would never have to find out. Tamlin was frozen, staring at the woman with starlight eyes.

"Please," he whispered.

There we go. "Please what?" Rhysand cooed at him.

"Don't tell Amarantha about her," Tamlin said, finally getting to the important part of this exchange.

"And why not? As her whore," Rhysand gave a smirk and a look at Lucien, "I should tell her everything."

"Please," Tamlin gasped. His face was white. The hatred and fear were like a punch to the gut when Rhysand brushed against his mind.

Rhysand smiled. "Beg, and I'll consider not telling Amarantha." _Beg the way I begged for my people. Beg for her._

Tamlin blinked at him a moment. But then, he dropped to his knees. He bowed his head.

It was immensely satisfying.

"Lower."

Tamlin pressed his forehead to the floor, his hands reaching out in front of him the way Rhysand's own had when he had begged Amarantha… as punishment for killing Tamlin's father.

Lucien was staring at him in disbelief. The mortal woman was peaking through her hair in horror.

"You too, fox-boy." Rhysand pointed at him. _Amarantha's whore._ He could hear the venom in Lucien's voice as he had called him that.

Lucien turned red with rage, his lips tight… but after a moment he also touched his knees to the floor and his head to the ground.

The mortal woman was looking for the knife he had thrown from her hands. She was a fighter, that much had always been apparent to him. The hatred pouring from her burned him.

He couldn't help himself by asking, "Are you doing this for your sake, or for her?" He could rip through his mind to find out but… He shrugged, looking over Tamlin. "You're far too desperate, Tamlin. It's off-putting. Becoming High Lord made you so boring."

"Are you going to tell Amarantha?" Tamlin asked, the desperation coming through in his voice. Not even realizing that he was proving Rhysand's point for him.

He smirked down at him. "Perhaps I'll tell her, perhaps I won't."

Then Tamlin snapped his teeth at his neck, in Rhysand's face in a fast burst of movement. Rhysand didn't flinch.

"None of that," He clicked his tongue, pushing Tamlin away from him. "Not with a lady present." His heart ached as he took in her form on the floor. She was angry, more angry than scared now. He wasn't sure that was the reaction he was going for. She was glaring at him, those blue-grey eyes piercing. Her freckles were distracting.

He couldn't help himself. He needed to know, it wouldn't matter anyway, not if she ran, and he wouldn't tell Amarantha that he knew anyway…

"What's your name, love?"

She was debating on telling him, thinking that he would find her family, panicked at the realization he could see her lies and then, she blurted out, "Clare Beddor." A bland name, a name so unlike her that Rhysand knew she was lying without feeling the lie in her mind.

She was wise enough to think to lie to him.

Cauldron, her hatred for him was as deep as the ocean.

He turned away from her, his heart seizing up in his chest. He could feel her eyes burning holes in the back of his tunic. Why was it always so hard to turn away from her? He took a deep breath of her scent again, a scent he had tried so desperately to forget. A temptation and a salvation all in one.

He looked at Tamlin, still close to his face. "Well, this was entertaining. The most fun I've had in ages, actually. I'm looking forward to seeing you three Under the Mountain. I'll give Amarantha your regards." _Think of my threat, Tamlin. Get her out, and get her out now._

With a last deep breath, he folded the world around him. To an area of neutral area in the area surrounding the mountain… an area he had only visited once but he needed to –

Rhysand vomited up his dried meat and apple as soon as his feet were under him again. He felt like half of his soul, his heart was in that manor, looking at him like he was a monster. He leaned his arm against a tree above his head as the dregs of his stomach fought their way out.

This was not his week.

Rhysand spit then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic.

He looked in the direction of Spring court, the sun still high in the sky.

She had thought him a monster, and this time, he only hoped that he had been enough of one.

* * *

Please review!


	7. A Very Boring Battle

Happy February everyone.

Things are really starting to ramp up.

I just want to say that I appreciate your feedback so very much, I look forward to every review I receive.

To those who are the silent readers, thank you for bothering to get this far in my version of Rhysand's story.

Read, enjoy, and review!

-Turtle Steed

* * *

Rhysand had taken as much time as he could spare to hide in the woods outside of the Court Under the Mountain. After he was done vomiting like the fool that he was, he had waved a cleansing hand across himself, thoroughly removing all evidence of his ailment.

His stomach still didn't sit right in him, feeling empty and aching all the same.

The sun was high overhead, somewhat dimmed to the buttery sunlight of the Spring Court. The leaves above him filtered the light until even the midday light felt like twilight.

He stood to his full height, longing to stretch his wings out and fly away from his worries.

His mother liked to tell him an old Illyrian tale of a maiden and warrior, who when the maiden had reached of age in which her wings would be clipped, a dashing warrior came from above and saved her. Together they flew off into the sunset, to a moonstone castle high above the Illyrian mountain range.

He was too young to realize then that his mother had been the maiden, and his father the warrior.

And what he had thought was a happy ending turned out to be a tragedy in the end anyway.

He leaned a hand delicately against the tall oak who stood sentry next to him while he took in his surroundings. He was skirting the edge of a small meadow, tall oaks and maples encircling the field. The air was warm and thick, smelling of wildflowers and grass. The field was overgrown with a tall grass, small areas having been pushed down where some wild beast of the forest had bedded down for the night. He spread out his consciousness looking for another presence, but he was relieved to find that only small creatures of the earth surrounded him.

When Rhysand had been young, he had enjoyed watching the minds of the wild birds that flew around Velaris, the squirrels who lived in the trees in the garden of his townhouse. The townhouse had originally been a second home of his mother, a place in which she could escape the moonstone palace where his father presided. So, when his father was away completing High Lord business, or presiding over the Court of Nightmares, Rhysand and Livana were free to explore the Velarian townhouse.

Rhysand had sat on his butt in the garden watching the creatures presided about the garden just about every chance he could get. Livana, still only a babe with wings was learning to fly from watching the birds. With all of Livana's squalling and flailing, her raven hair flying behind her, the squirrels and birds would hide in the trees. It had annoyed Rhysand terribly. His mother sat and watched them, her wings stretching, folding and unfolding while she sipped her tea.

Rhysand would kill for another day like the days he spent sitting in the garden. A world where Livana and his mother were still alive.

Rhysand grasp a hold on the great oak, carefully hauling his body up the tree until he reached a branch large enough for him to sprawl out on. Resting his head on an arm behind his head he looked up through the branches above him to the baby blue sky above. Only a few clouds were floating by on a mild breeze.

He took a deep breath, finding that it caught in his chest on the way out.

The smell of lilac and pears lingered.

Tamlin had been trying all this time, Rhysand too stupid to see it. He hated him, he was blinded by his own hatred. As blinded by his hatred as he had been fifty years ago…

He still wondered what would have happened if he had spoke to Tamlin about his concerns about their 'Never Fading Flower' from Hybern.

If only.

If only he had investigated the mortal woman's mind more closely on Fire Night… but he had been so distracted. Her eyes had been striking, her resemblance to how she had been in his dreams. She looked at him in a way that at once unsettled and warmed him… her gaze had disarmed him from his own meticulous game.

He had been so floored, allured, _attracted_ to this mortal in a way he hadn't been in a long time. Rhysand was so distracted that he didn't recognize the clear signs the Cauldron had been trying to give him. Caren, that male who had been sent to spy on Amarantha all those years ago had likely been sent as a distraction. All the while Tamlin trying to break the curse all along.

And, Rhysand had to admit, he had been awfully close to breaking it. He still _was_ awfully close to breaking it. She loved him, Rhysand could feel that, see that, even if she could not yet.

He wondered if he would feel the change in the earth if Tamlin broke the curse. It would only break for Tamlin of course… but even a High Lord as weak as Tamlin would be powerful enough to destroy Amarantha.

And Rhysand had just done his best to ensure that the curse remained unbroken.

 _What was he doing?_

Rhysand took another deep breath, finding that it was still like breathing in glass.

He remembered her broken face as she peeked up at him in horror from that marble floor. He remembered the way she gasped for air when he let go of her mind. He remembered the way her innocent, fragile human mind had felt in the claws of his power.

It really was not fair. To show him this woman, so beautiful, so innocent. To bring this woman to see him, to meet him, only to throw her into the most dangerous position of this entire godsdamn impasse.

Rhysand had done something stupid by scaring her, scaring Tamlin. She could be his salvation but for some reason… Rhysand only wanted her out. Safe. He only prayed that his performance had been enough, enough that Tamlin would send her somewhere, far, far away.

If Rhysand was Amarantha's whore until the end of times, then it would be worth it if Velaris remained safe. If his Inner Circle escaped her clutches. If that mortal woman avoided the witches gaze. Because if she was successful, if she broke her curse… Amarantha would stop at nothing to rip her to shreds.

To have those beautiful painters hands ripped from her body… that was something he could not tolerate.

Was what Rhysand wanted worth the rest of Prythian's imprisonment?

He wasn't sure. But he couldn't bear it any other way.

Rhysand began to feel that familiar pull on his powers, a draining on what reserve was left after her curse. _Amarantha's calling._

Cursing, he sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand while his legs dangled from the branch.

What the hell was he going to tell Amarantha? _Truth and lies, lies and truth._

In a swift move, he jumped the feet from the branch to the ground, his feet slamming into the ground, his knees bending with his weight.

It felt good.

Before he winnowed back Under the Mountain, he savored his open surroundings and muttered under his breath the first lines an old mortal sonnet, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…"

* * *

Rhysand winnowed to the entrance of the mountain, a shrouded cave that was heavily guarded with every manner of warrior. He glared at all of them. They ignored him, continuing with their business.

The entrance of the mountain was rather small and sudden, nothing but a small archway of stone carved out of the mountain side. Amarantha wasn't exactly inconspicuous, her cronies crawling all over the mountain side. Most were High Fae, unfamiliar to Rhysand, but some were snouted creatures, like the grunt who guarded the dungeon and the Attor.

They had learned to keep their distance from Rhysand or risk losing an extremity. Rhysand had made it clear that while he pretended to be loyal to Amarantha, he was not loyal to Hybern.

He wanted to pause, to collect himself, to _think_ before he spoke to Amarantha. Something this big was not something that he could successfully keep under wraps… Tamlin and his court would be joining them all soon enough and if word escaped, as he knew it likely would…

Well. It would not work out well for Rhysand or his court.

He knew his face was vicious, a fearful sight enough so that no one would bother him as he winded through the fae light-lit passageways that led to the main network of Amarantha's Court.

He knew that his night sky was tendrils behind him, his eyes blue flames, his face made of nightmares. Honestly, it matched how he was feeling on the inside: empty, loathing, aching.

His footsteps echoed as if a drumbeat signaling an impending climax…

 _What do I say what do I say what do I say what do I say…_

If he said nothing, he faced the almost guaranteed risk that word of this mortal woman would get out, surely someone in Tamlin's court had been around her… His power was too weak to keep taps on anyone who knew of his Court of Dreamers, protect Velaris and keep taps on those who knew this mortal girl…

If he said only partial truth that this girl had existed but had ran from Tamlin, hadn't wanted Tamlin, had hated faeries just as Amarantha expected… Amarantha would hunt her down, wanting to use her to break Tamlin.

And if he said the whole truth… or a twisted part of the whole truth… then he risked that this girl was not sent back to the mortal realms, that Amarantha would capture her and kill her to again, break Tamlin.

They were all shitty options.

Perhaps if he waited, bided his time somehow tonight… if he told Amarantha about her but diminished her worth, told her that fabricated name only after a period time had passed, enough time for Tamlin to get her out. Perhaps that would work.

His head hurt.

He slowed his footsteps as he approached the throne room where Amarantha was waiting for him. He could feel the fortress of her mind behind the walls.

He transformed himself into his usual arrogant, seductive, imperious form. He brushed a piece of grass from his tunic, ensured that his boots shone.

 _Lies and truth. Truth and lies._

A mixture of both, as always. He strolled casually through the entryway, his eyes for the throne only. In his peripheral vision he noted the usual crowd dancing, drinking merrily, a few servants dashing about. Serving food, drink and touch.

"Rhysand." Amarantha cooed from her perch on the dais, she was standing in a navy gown tonight. Sequins spilled down her gown, sparkling like the night sky. His stomach clenched, hating how she used some of his style from his own Night Court. "How nice of you to join us. Tell me, how have you made out? How is our dear Tamlin?"

She had one of her pale hands wrapped around a glass of wine, one of her High Fae minions from Hybern to her side.

Rhysand bowed as he approached, kissing her free hand as she extended it.

"Oh, it was quite fascinating." He straightened, his hands clasped behind his back.

"How so?" Her dark eyes were like an abyss.

"It seems Tamlin has been rather naughty all these years." Rhysand said again, stopping. He knew it would irritate her that he was taking his time with his information.

"Speak now, Rhysand. I grow tired of your games." She snapped, her voice a whip. A bit touchy today.

He grinned at her slowly. "Apologies, Your Majesty. It seemed I interrupted a lunch between the High Lord and his emissary. Upon my walk through the manor, I discovered an interesting scent." Rhysand lowered his voice dramatically. "A _human_ scent."

"What?" Amarantha growled quietly.

"Be thankful, Your Majesty, that Tamlin had not improved at wooing woman over the decades. It seems that a human woman was brought to the manor, and after several days of attempting courting, was returned to the human realm with rather poor memory of what happened."

The glass in Amarantha's hand shattered. Silence festered throughout the court. The eyes of the court were glued to Rhysand. He stuck his hands in his pocket.

"According to my search of their minds… she thought Tamlin and Lucien to be 'faerie pigs.' She went as far as presenting them a painting as such."

The crowd laughed around him. Amarantha did not.

"Fortunately, the failure has left Tamlin rather… despondent. He will be rethinking your offer." Rhysand looked into her eyes, a smirking smile on his face. He cocked his head to the side in a predatory gaze.

From the inferno of rage burning behind her mental walls, he was surprised she didn't burst into flame.

A moment of silence passed.

"We will discuss this further in the future, Rhysand." Her voice was cool.

 _Great._

Rhysand bowed and headed to his usual hangout by the couched near the back of the throne room. He chugged a glass of wine and grabbed another before putting his feet up on the table in front of the couch.

Amarantha sat in her throne, brushing off anyone who came to chat with her. She glared ahead, clearly brooding.

Rhysand just prayed for that girl with the painter's hands, stunning eyes and freckled nose. He prayed that Tamlin was getting her out. He had been lucky enough this far that Amarantha had not been thinking clearly enough to ask him for a name, for information about the girl.

Rhysand prayed he had been enough.

The leather couch shifted slightly as a one of the golden-haired women from the other night sat down carefully, brushing her hair over her shoulder. Hoping he would take the bait.

Her eyes were green, not the color of starlight.

Rhysand chugged the rest of his wine, setting his glass down. Then he pulled her onto his lap as she giggled. "I guess you'll do," Rhysand purred in her ear, breathing in her scent. Spiced but… slightly floral. Close enough.

She laughed and pet his thigh.

He was going to need more wine.

* * *

That night, Amarantha called for him as usual. She went right to business, did not chat with him beforehand. This was not unusual for them, something Rhysand was thankful for, but he was wary of her mood.

As she rode him, Rhysand thought about how his hands would feel around her pale neck. He wondered how deep she would scratch him with those clawed nails of hers while he strangled her until she turned blue-

"Tamlin…" She breathed from above him. He swallowed the bile that threatened to rise, his disgust for her having no limits.

As his power did its work, making it so unbearably good for her, his body reacting involuntarily, he allowed his mind to travel. After fifty years of forced coupling, he could do this without much thought.

The girl with those blue-grey eyes, hair like burnished gold who looked at him like he was a cruel god. He saw the way she hated him, knowing that it was only a small portion compared to how he hated himself. Cauldron, he hoped that she was on her way out of Prythian or perhaps already gone-

A clawed hand was wrapping around his neck. His eyes flew open, staring up into Amarantha's own dark eyes who were gleaming with a crazed light.

The claw tightened. Rhysand struggled to shove down his panic, not to fling her from him the way he had learned during his Illyrian training, struggled not to use his power to strangle her…

She was still moving above him, even as her grasp was choking him.

"You should not have brought that information to me in front of my court," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Rhysand stared up at her, trying to breath. His power was like cinders, burning softly in a fireplace. He could feel his wards failing…

"It was foolish of you Rhysand, to forget what power I have over you… what I can do if I wanted." She gripped him tighter yet, her movement increasing in speed. "What I can take from you…"

"You are… powerless." She shuttered above him. "Powerless, compared to me."

Rhysand gripped the sheets in an attempt to control that beast rising in him, the one that would kill her, strangle her, make her cease to exist-

She released her grip from his neck, her hands now digging their claws into his shoulders, drawing blood. Rhysand gasped for air as she cried out above him, a name that wasn't his, a name he hated almost as much as her-

Cauldron, he fucking _hated_ her.

When she was done, and Rhysand neck still aching she rolled from him, standing quickly. Rhysand as usual, had not met his own release. A small mercy that she did not insist-

"Did you at least get a name?" She hissed, not looking at him. She slipped a black robe over her shoulders.

Rhysand lay in the bed like the piece of shit he was.

"Clare," he gasped out. "Clare Beddor." His voice was hoarse from her grip. He was going to have to cover bruises tomorrow.

Amarantha snorted, stalking to her bathroom. "How _mortal_."

She turned a disdainful look at him once before the door slammed behind her, "Get out."

She wasn't usually so short with him. _Is the pressure getting to you then?_

As she disappeared, Rhysand winnowed to his own room, not bothering to dress. He couldn't stand another minute with her.

He stalked to his decanter, thankful a servant had refilled it in his absence. He sniffed it once for poison before downing four large gulps full.

This woman was turning him into a goddamn alcoholic.

* * *

Amarantha had loosened her leash on him, at least for a few days leading up to Tamlin's capture. He wasn't sure it was due to apathy, regret or gratefulness but he didn't particularly care.

While she reigned in her throne room nightly, he was free to flirt with the faeries who presided her court without fear of her calling for him. He was permitted dally, to drink, to dance as he pleased. At the end of the night, she called for him as usual, but she was quiet and less vindictive than before. Perhaps she was nervous, perhaps she was angry at him, but regardless it made things rather simple for him.

And, within reason he could leave Under the Mountain for short periods.

Two days before Tamlin's capture, Rhysand told her after their coupling that he intended on checking in on the Spring Court to ensure all would go as planned. He had volunteered to lead the attack on Spring Court, a rarity for him, but he hoped that it would place him back into whatever good graces she had. To his surprise, she had just nodded at him in approval. And when he mentioned on checking on the Spring Court, she had again just nodded before kicking him out.

It wasn't sure if it was trust or suspicion that was causing her distance.

Regardless, Rhysand woke with a vigor that morning. He had not dreamed of her in so long, unsure if whatever connection they had had was severed by the wall, or if she had somehow shut him out in her hatred. He _had_ to know if the mortal woman was gone from Spring Court…

If she wasn't, if he found she had lingered, Rhysand wasn't sure what he would do. Perhaps improvise, a skill he was good at but did not enjoy. He would not let Amarantha touch her.

He bathed and dressed quickly, shoving a quick bar of seeds and dried fruit down his gullet. Then, as he had before, he winnowed directly outside of the manor gates. The gates were unguarded. He pushed the iron gate open with ease, strolling through the manor gardens. The gardens upon his last arrival had been full of life, servants tending to the garden and landscape, court laughing as they strolled through the garden. This time… only a few servants lingered. The brush was already overgrown.

Rhysand had strolled up to the front door, not bothering to infiltrate any minds. They didn't interfere with him any who, they simply paled at his appearance and shuffled along on their way. Almost as if they were anticipating him.

He stopped at the door and instead of barging into the manor as he had originally intended, he raised a pale fist and knocked. Three firm taps.

He only had to wait a moment before the door slide open, and to his surprise the door was answered not by Tamlin, not by a servant, but by Lucien.

The emissary was not exactly happy to see him. His face was sour as he stood to the side, motioning for Rhysand to enter.

Rhysand stepped through the entryway, his lips spread into a smile.

"Tsk, tsk, where are your manners Lucien? Didn't your mother teach you to greet your superiors with their proper title?" Rhysand smirked at him, brushing a bit of dust off of Lucien's own green tunic. "I believe I would be Your Magnanimous High-"

"What do you want, Rhysand?" Lucien snapped at him, brushing past Rhysand down the hall. Leading him.

Rhysand took a breath of the air. Only a slight tinge of that lilac and pear scent remained, days old. "Oh, just to see how you were fairing on the day before our big date. To see if your new guest was ready for what waits for her beneath the mountain."

Lucien grunted at him, not bothering to answer. He was led to the dining room. Tamlin was standing by the window this time, the large table back in its normal place. The chairs were new, but the rest of the room had yet to be replaced. The curtains showed the marks of Tamlin's claws, the rug ripped to shreds beneath their feet. The remnants of a broken mirror lingered before the fireplace.

"I would have thought the centuries gone past would have taught you how to curb your temper, Tamlin, but alas, I was wrong. Perhaps you cannot teach an old dog new tricks." Rhysand smirked at him as he did not bother to look up at Rhysand entered the room.

Tamlin lunged at him, transforming in a swift move to his beast form, barreling into the place that Rhysand had been standing in moments ago. Tamlin spun around, roaring, his claws out. Lucien had jumped over the table and was now sitting in his chair with his feet up on the table, watching the show.

Rhysand was now standing by the window where Tamlin was once standing, having sensed the attack. He growled at Tamlin, a deep, guttural sound. His teeth were bared in full, his own beast coming through in sharpened canines. His hands were claws.

"I did not come here to fight you, boy, but if you insist, I promise I will not hesitate to crush you into dust. If you think you have learned something over the past few centuries remember that I was the one who showed you the Illyrian ways. I was the one who taught you to use your knives, to hunt with the wind. Do you think I would be so foolish to teach you everything I know?" Rhysand's voice was deadly. His night whipped around them.

Tamlin just growled at him again mindlessly. Green eyes met Rhysand's own violet. Tamlin was winding back, tensing, readying for another attack.

"Tell me, Tamlin, when was the last time you fought without the gift of sight?" Rhysand whispered, spreading his dark out into a heavy mask that ate up all light in the room.

They were in pitch black. The darkest of the night, that space between stars now surrounded them.

"Shit." Lucien muttered from across the room.

Tamlin growled again, a frustrated, low sound.

A moment of silence passed.

Then, Rhysand heard a chair slide, and a firm plop as Tamlin threw himself into it.

"Enough, Rhysand. What do you want?" This time it was Tamlin's voice, still having a growl to it.

Rhysand paused, then threw himself into one of the remaining dining chairs, the one farthest away from the pair. Then, he drew his night back into himself. Honestly, it was exhausting to exert so much energy at once. He made a fist and released it, trying to let some of the tension go, begging his clawed fingers to disappear.

He looked up. Tamlin was almost back to his High Fae form, his hands still clawed, his teeth still long. But the eyes that looked at Rhysand had lost their fight. Lucien was peeling an orange, a lazy elbow on the table.

"I simply came to see how you were doing, the date of the curse coming so close to pass. I notice the lack of your guest. Or are you trying to trick me again?" Just to be sure, Rhysand scanned his eyes over the room, searching for the glamour with his own magic.

"There is no trick. She is gone." Tamlin muttered, looking back out the window. Rhysand could smell the truth of his answer.

"Gone? Gone where?" Rhysand gripped the arms of his chair, shifting his weight slightly. His face was carefully uninterested.

Tamlin snorted. "Wherever humans go when they aren't in Prythian. Why do you care?"

 _Good question._ "I do not care. I was simply wondering at how you gave up so easily on her." He placed a clawed hand underneath his chin. Bloody fingers wouldn't cooperate with him. "Nevertheless, perhaps it's better that way. They say human hearts are as fickle as the weather. Though, I would imagine it would have made it that much easier for you. Such a pity that she was as stubborn as the Suriel."

"What is your point, Rhysand?" Tamlin was drawing on his new chair was a long claw.

"There is no point. She is preparing for you. I hope you are ready." Rhysand kept his face serious, his voice echoing in the hall.

Tamlin said nothing. Rhysand could feel the emptiness of the manor now pressing in on them.

Lucien after a swallow of an orange slice cleared his throat, "We are ready. Is that all you wanted, whore?"

 _Did you love her? Did you know her? Or were you just using her?_ Rhysand wanted to ask desperately.

"It's a shame about your mortal girl. She would have been such fun. Tell me, did your stone heart beat for her?" Rhysand looked at Tamlin with that predatory gaze of his.

Tamlin just bared his teeth at him. "Leave."

"See you soon, High Lord," Rhysand chucked as he winnowed back to his chambers underneath the mountain.

He landed in his chambers, the morning having just started. He could hear servants walking down the hall outside of his room.

He sighed a breath of relief. Gone. They had sent her away… with a little luck, Rhysand would never see her again.

The thought rang surprisingly dull in his ears.

* * *

The day had come.

Rhysand had rose early that day, wearing a simple black tunic set and a double set of Illyrian knives across his chest.

Not that he expected to use it. He was really only going as a commander, a figure-head for the crimson queen. There to prove exactly how loyal he was to Amarantha's cause.

There to boss around Tamlin and remind him of exactly how badly they all were fucked.

It was surprisingly cloudy as he winnowed to the outskirts of the manor. Amarantha's cronies had already arrived, flown in that morning without Rhysand's knowledge. He had a feeling that was the Attor's doing.

His wrath was a living thing around him as he watched the small village near the manor burning, a few High Fae strapped together with chains. Lesser fae were either running, fighting or rotting under the smoky skies. He watched as one of the Attor pinned a green skinned faerie against a garden wall. He was punching her repeatedly in the face while she whimpered.

The creature screeched as a dark tendril wrapped around him, snapping his arms and black wings to his side. The green faerie stared once at Rhysand in panic and then sprinted away, not unlike a deer.

"You. Where is your master?" Rhysand hissed.

He struggled, his gray face wrinkling in rage. "Heading to the manor," he scowled, releasing his powerlessness.

Rhysand dropped him quickly, winnowing closer to the cobblestone steps. The Attor was leading a group of his own down the path.

His magic seeped down the path, grasping the group of him in his mental claws.

"You foolish, weak creature." Rhysand growled, approached them in a casual stroll. His power was strangling them. "You forget yourself, Attor. You are not the commander here, you do not lead this charge, you are _nothing._ "

The Attor was raging in his claws, his beady eyes full of both panic and anger.

"You are nothing here. You are only allowed to participate in our Queen's Court out of convenience. You will be leaving here to return to her Majesty. You will tell her how you attempted to use her Majesties armies without authorization for an attack against the Spring Court." Rhysand's voice was quiet and cruel.

The Attor managed let out a small pained hiss between his thin lips.

Then he disappeared, Rhysand having sent him back Under the Mountain with a quick blast of power.

The rest of the Attor's cronies and a few of Amarantha's army remained, frozen, staring blankly at Rhysand on the cobblestone path. He released their minds. Then, he spread a cruel smile over his face. "Let us see how compliant our dear High Lord will be with his return to court."

They cheered, somewhat out of viciousness, somewhat out of fear.

Ten of them clawed open the iron gate with their bare hands, bending the metal irreparably. There were no sentries surrounding the gate.

Amarantha's army marched through Tamlin's grounds, stomping down the flowers and shrubbery that scattered the grounds. Rhysand hung back, letting them do the work for him, strolling behind him. His stars and night twinkling behind him.

A few sentries lurked around the mansion itself, lurking in the gardens to the side of the house. They put up a short fight, causing just enough of a disturbance to draw blood but one by one, they surrendered. _Interesting._

Rhysand suspected they had been ordered to get a few hits in, let some aggression out, and then fall into line. It wasn't a foolish order, but perhaps just a little too late.

Rhysand strolled up to the front door, slamming the doors open with a wave of night air.

The hallway was empty ahead of him. He stood in the doorway, patiently waiting on his men to realize that Rhysand had opened the way without a second thought. He huffed a breath through his nose, his arms crossed. He had to cock an eyebrow over his shoulder before anyone noticed. To say that he missed his own men would be an understatement.

Finally, Amarantha's men had entered behind him, quickly moving throughout the mansion. A few of Tamlin's men lingered in the hall's, a few servants screamed weakly before surrendering.

Overall, this was a very _boring_ battle.

He began his casual stroll to the place he suspected they would be waiting for them, the location of their usual dates. A few of the Attor's cronies rushed ahead of him, breaking through various doors along the hallway. One slammed into Rhysand's destination, the dining room door, and was thrown back in a blast of power.

He had to swallow his laugh.

Rhysand approached the door, using his powers to disarm the trap Tamlin had set with his own powers. It was harder than it once was.

He paused, trying to grip that cruel, raging part of him. Without the screaming of innocents, without starlight eyes to burn into his soul, he was feeling… empty. This was going to be difficult.

He blasted apart the door.

"Hello, Tamlin," he purred, stepping through the threshold.

* * *

Oh boy. Time for Tamlin to join us Under the Mountain... Can you feel the testosterone levels rising? I can.

I want to say a special thanks to Dreamy and Books, urte, blondjinjit, BlueEyedBandit35, islajune44 and Inaminrornes. I appreciate your reviews and your support.


	8. The Rest of Eternity

Hiya everyone.

Long time no see. Don't worry, I still plan on finishing this story I have just gotten to the point in the writing where I am no longer written ahead.

Please, enjoy this chapter.

Warning: It's a sad chapter with themes in torture and rape... you've been warned.

Our poor cinnamon bun Rhys has been through a lot

As always: Review!

* * *

"Hello, Tamlin." Rhysand entered the now shredded door in front of him.

With a quick sweep of his gaze, he took in the now familiar dining room. The table was pushed to the side of the room, the curtains remaining shredded from Tamlin's hissy fit. The rugs showed streaks of claw marks, but in the middle of the room two dining room chairs remained.

In the larger chair of the two, Tamlin was sprawled, a single claw carving circles in the grain. In his other hand he was clutching a glass, a honey colored liquid swirling in the bottom. His green eyes met Rhysand's in an unimpressed stare, his lips pressed firmly together. His eyebrows did not rise in surprise at Rhysand's entrance to the room.

Lucien was hitting next to him a smaller chair, his hands resting on a sword that he had laying across his lap. Unlike Tamlin, his back was stiff, and his face stressed.

When no one said anything, Rhysand smiled smoothly and murmured, "I expect you know why I am here. You are wanted at court, boys."

Amarantha's men were now entering the room behind him, slinking along the walls. Assessing the tension in the room. The High Fae men from Amarantha's personal army could at least take orders.

Lucien bared his teeth at those words, at the entrance of enemies. Rhysand thought he looked more fox-like than ever with his white teeth and glimmering mask.

Tamlin said nothing, simply took a sip from his whiskey. His glimmering grass-colored eyes stared Rhysand down, ignoring the the growing crowd of soldiers.

"Amarantha must not be fully satisfied if she wants us to join her already. Performance issues, Rhysand?" Lucien snapped.

Rhysand ignored him, looking only at Tamlin.

"Now you know that there is no reason to make this difficult… You have a matter of minutes until the curse is final. Unless you have another harlot hiding around the corner who wishes to confess her relentless devotion to you, I suggest that you come with me." Rhysand smiled unkindly, his stomach clenching.

He wondered not for the first time if he would feel the moment the curse was complete.

A moment walked by.

"I do not think we will be joining you." Tamlin growled.

The glass shattered in his hand.

The men behind Rhysand jumped.

Rhysand examined the drops of whiskey soaking into the carpet. "What a waste of a good liquor." Lucien stood suddenly, gripping his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Tamlin remained sitting, although both of his hands were clawed.

"Have it your way then." Rhysand smirked, looking into Lucien's amber eyes.

The weapons in his hands clashed to the floor. Lucien stared at Rhysand in terror and in rage, his mind so full of anger and misery… it was almost painful to grip. His neck tilted back as Rhysand stretched his muscles to the point of strain. It was only Rhysand's power that kept him on his feet.

Tamlin stood, a look of fury on his face. "Enough- "

Then Tamlin's eyes snapped to the doorway. His face cleared of all emotion.

A spiced scent swept across the room, a fortress of a mind following clicking footsteps.

Rhysand swallowed his annoyance.

"Tsk, tsk." A female voice clicked her tongue. "We aren't fighting are we?"

A cold hand brushed softly along the back of Rhysand's neck. He held back the instinct to grab that hand and twist her arm. "Release him." She purred in his ear. Rhysand gripped his disgust carefully, releasing his hold on Lucien.

Lucien fell to his knees, gasping for air. Unsteadily, he gathered his weapons and rose to his feet. He stumbled to Tamlin's side.

"Amarantha." Tamlin growled after a moment, acknowledging her.

Lucien glared at the floor.

"I have so been looking forward to your return to my court, my love. I have made many preparations." Amarantha walked slowly around Rhysand, stepping ahead until she was only feet from the High Lord. Her hair gleamed red in the Spring light, her black dress swirling around her as she moved with grace.

Tamlin said nothing. Although his voice had been low and aggressive, his face revealed nothing. His claws were gone, his hands hanging loosely by his side. Lucien was still trying to catch his breath.

"Do you feel it, Tamlin? The way the Cauldron churns, pulling our fates together." Amarantha purred, reaching a carefully groomed hand up to caress Tamlin's face. "In only moments, your curse will be over. You will be forced to return to my side. You should have taken my offer all those years ago, Tamlin. You could have been more than a _High Lord_ ," she said in a mocking tone. "You could have been King of all Prythian, just as I am Queen. Equal, as we always have been."

Rhysand doubted the 'equality' part of that statement but- he took a careful sniff of the air, searching for a connection that may or may not exist. He could only smell Amarantha's spiced scent overpowering Tamlin's floral and Lucien's woodsy scent.

"However, after your _behavior,_ I am not as sure that you are my equal as I once was." Rhysand was impressed at the control on Tamlin's face as her finger traced his lips. "But… I think I would still like you to be mine. Submit, Tamlin, and I will make you my consort. Submit, and feel my mercy."

 _Mercy_. Rhysand wasn't sure he had ever seen an ounce of mercy from her in all the years he had been her slave.

A moment passed. Lucien was now burning holes in Rhysand's face with his gaze. He was ignoring Amarantha outright.

"No?" Amarantha smiled. "I thought you might need some convincing. Wait until you see the party I have thrown in celebration of your return. I believe you will find it most compelling, don't you Rhysand?"

"A more persuasive party has never been had, Your Majesty." Rhysand spoke softly, his guilt and misery threatening to swallow him whole. The only consolation was that the human girl was gone, safe. Far away from this hellhole.

Tamlin still said nothing. He stared at Amarantha, his gaze revealing nothing.

"I believe it's time." Amarantha said suddenly with glee, clapping her hands together.

Indeed, a bond between Tamlin and Amarantha was appearing the air between them. It was thin, wispy, but glowed with Amarantha's signature power. Amarantha gripped an end of it, and Tamlin's chest was pulled forward with the force of her grip.

The color was draining was Tamlin's face as what was left of his power was surrendered to the mockery of a Queen. Lucien took an involuntary step away from him, horror spreading across his features, his gaze finally ripping from Rhysand's.

Rhysand was careful to make sure that his features were covered by his imperious, cocky smirk. A clear contrast to the feeling in his chest as what little of hope he had left was being slowly crushed.

"As you were not able to convince a human woman to love you, to marry you, the chance for you to break the spell I have over your powers is now over. You are mine, Tamlin, just as the others are." Tamlin was forced to his knees as weakness overtook him. Amarantha's hair whipped around her as her power ripped through the room, her edges glowing white. Her eyes were an abyss.

"You will join me in my court, and you will be my consort. My lover." Tamlin stared at the floor, the bond between them beginning to fade. The glow in his face was gone, his usually tanned face pale and wane. Lucien was staring at him in horror.

Rhysand was grateful that the cauldron had blessed him with enough power to shield his city, his friends even with only a shadow of his grace left. As if the eddy's of the cauldron knew he would require more power than the others…

"Ah. Now that is complete, come." Amarantha gripped Tamlin's shoulder as he remained crumpled on his knees. "Let us join the party." Amarantha was smiling cruelly, her teeth sharp and gleaming.

"Rhysand, round the rest up. Ensure that the court that remains joins us as well. Kill the spares." She didn't even look up at him.

"Of course." Rhysand bowed, glad she couldn't see his face.

Then, Tamlin and the Queen faded into nothing.

A moment waned on, Lucien, Rhysand and Amaranth's army staring at the space where she was standing a moment ago.

"And so, it begins." Rhysand muttered. The soldiers behind him whooped and began to exit the room. Their laughter was leaking through the manor like a flood.

Lucien snapped his gaze back to Rhysand.

"Don't worry, you're coming too, fox-boy. I am sure that she has some use for you lined up. Your brothers are already looking forward to seeing you at court." Rhysand had carefully avoided most of the court who had gathered for todays main event, but he had seen some gleaming red hair in the crowds.

"I know what you did in the Winter Court." Lucien growled back at him. His swords were still out, the dagger pointed at Rhysand's chest. "They all know you were the one who destroyed them. _Children._ " His teeth were again bared. "How do you sleep at night? How can you live?"

Rhysand gave him a closed mouth, bitter smile. "I live just as you do, serving my court." Truth and lies, lies and truth.

Rhysand winnowed quickly to his side. "Come on." He gripped Lucien's arm, winnowing him back Under the Mountain. He savored the sunlight that was streaming through the windows of the dining room, wondering when he would see the sun again.

Rhysand winnowed them directly into the throne room this time, managing to find some free space towards the back wall. The rest of soldiers could handle the rest of the court, to be honest, Rhysand didn't give two shits about who came to join as part of the Spring Court.

Lucien ripped his arm from Rhysand's grip as soon as his feet was under him, quickly sheathing his sword and a dagger in his belt.

"Oh no you don't." Rhysand grinned at him. "Hand them over."

"What?" Lucien hissed back at him, incredulous. His eyes were darting around the room.

Eris and his brothers had already spied Lucien and were quickly cutting in this direction. Rhysand almost felt pity for him, or was it jealousy? An excuse to kill Beron's heirs would be rather convenient.

"Hand over your swords. No member of Amarantha's Court may carry weapons unless ordered otherwise."

Lucien stared at him in horror, realizing he would have to face his brothers without steel.

Rhysand patted down his own black tunic, showing his hands up in a sign of honesty. "See? Not a lick of steel. Give them over."

Lucien grumbled, gritting his teeth as he carefully removed his belt and sword. He handed them over to Rhysand clumsily.

Rhysand rose a delicate eyebrow. "And?"

Lucien glared, then removed not one, not two but three knives from his boots. And then another from a hidden compartment in his tunic.

Impressive. Cassian might have been amused.

As Rhysand gripped Lucien's pile of weapons, he bowed mockingly. "Pleasure. Welcome to the court under the mountain. I hope it's just as deprived as you expected. Enjoy the celebration."

He walked off with Lucien's weapons, tossing them to a grunt near the pillars lining either side of the arched exit. "Throw these in with the rest. They belong to our honored _emissary._ " Rhysand knew his mocking tone was within range of Lucien's hearing. He was pleased with the sharp spike of rage behind him.

Rhysand strolled over to his usual perch of a couch, filling a glass with the disgusting burgundy wine Amarantha's Court favored, and examined the room.

The crowd was now huge and less diverse than ever before. Very few lesser fae wandered the room, mostly serving meat tarts and drinks to the crowd of High Fae. The courts of the seven regions of Prythian.

He spied familiar faces in the crowd, the Lady of Autumn Court gracefully standing next to Beron. Lucien was now surrounded by his brothers, but surprisingly his back was straight. Eris did not actively attack him, so perhaps Lucien had more up his sleeve than Rhysand expected. He had heard Lucien had killed one of his brothers on his own.

Kallias was standing in the back of the room, quite the wallflower as always. Rhysand's swallowed the regret and guilt that hit him in the face at the sight of the High Lord of Winter Court.

Helion was glowing against the wall, allowed to have more power, like Rhysand due to his loyalty. He was laughing at something a handsome blonde male was saying to him. Thesan and Tarquin were both gathered on opposite ends of the room, talking quietly to members of their own court.

Tamlin, his face still carefully blank and pale was now sitting at the place of honor. His baldric was strung across his chest, however empty of the Illyrian knives Rhysand had gifted him. His smaller, bronze throne was now properly in position, two the left and slightly behind Amarantha's own. Off-kilt music that Amarantha favored played throughout the Throne Room, and members of her court were dancing to the strange beat. A few of the more deprived members of her court were lurking the corners, either torturing prisoners brought up from the jail or rubbing against each other sensually.

Lovely. Rhysand hated the fact that her court was modeled after his own Court of Nightmares.

Amarantha herself was lounging in her own throne, looking very smug and pleased with herself.

Rhysand returned to her right side, slightly behind. Ready for orders. It was too early to go off drunk with some pretty little thing.

He wasn't sure that the usual patch of alcohol and soft skin would be enough to bury the misery that was festering inside of him.

The High Lords scattered around the room carefully avoided his gaze. Even Helion, who Rhysand had always been on more pleasant terms with, looked away quickly when Rhysand had glanced his way.

Rhysand made sure that his scintillating smile was on full blast while his guilt burned through his veins. His hands were in his pocket.

Hours passed, the party having started early in the day. Lunch and dinner were brought in as the minutes passed, drinks refilled, and music grew louder.

Tamlin remained impassive, completely silent and unimpressed. He had little reaction to the atmosphere around him. He wasn't outright uncooperative, he stood when told to stand, he ate when told to ate, he drank and danced without passion. But he didn't give Amarantha the satisfaction seeing him feel.

Rhysand enjoyed it immensely. He could feel the rising anger behind Amarnatha's impressive shields, and although Tamlin's own mind reeked of rage and misery, he gave nothing away.

Rhysand had spent several hours after dinner milling around the room, dancing with women whose gazes lingered on his own, the wine warming his bones. He hadn't been drunk in a long time, having built up quite the tolerance over the years of Amarantha's oppression. It was a lovely, if not stressful feeling.

He was hopeful that Amarantha might leave him to his own devices as Tamlin was now here to distract her.

That was a fool's hope.

He heard his name in a firm and quiet tone near the throne. A summoning.

Rhysand ripped himself out of the arms of the woman who was clinging to him. He blinked a few times, trying to straighten himself out. It was rather rude of the floor to moving so much as he tried to walk on it, he thought to himself.

He made his way through the crowd, his hands in his pockets, a smile on his lips. Even drunk, he was in control.

"Your Majesty." Rhysand murmured, managing to sketch a bow in front of her throne. Amarantha was wearing red again tonight, but it was a lovely shade. The shade of poppies being painted carefully around the edge of a table.

Her hair clashed terribly with it.

"High Lord." Rhysand looked to Tamlin, declining to bow. Why should he?

"Pull yourself together. I may have need of you." Amarantha snapped at him.

"As you wish, Your Majesty." Rhysand bowed again, more straightly this time he thought.

Amarantha snorted and glared at him. "Attor, bring up our other honored guest. I would hate to keep her waiting."

Rhysand sobered up quickly. _It couldn't be…_ he thought with panic. He walked carefully back to his spot at Amarantha's right side. He kept his face carefully drunk, blinking several times as he tried to focus his gaze. His shields remained impeccable, and he spread his mind to Tamlin's. Tamlin was filled with the same panicked feeling as Rhysand.

The court had heard part of his interaction with the Queen, and they now gathered with interest. It had been several hours of a party, and members were drunk. And bloodthirsty.

The High Fae were always a feral lot when you brought them all together.

He put his hands in his pockets, shifting with lazy disinterest. Tamlin shifted to place his hand on his chin, feigning disinterest as well. Rhysand was interested to see that Lucien's face betrayed some fear. He had always been transparent.

Rhysand began courting his breaths, ensuring they were even and deep. The scent of sour wine and anticipation filled his chest.

After exactly sixty-seven forced breathes, the Attor returned gripping a hooded figure, his forked tongue poking out the side of his mouth. The figure was hunched over, as if in pain and terror. Rhysand sniffed, only able to smell the scent of sweat and fear from the figure. Too many scents were mixing around the room.

The Attor gripped her with his grey claws, his leathery wings tightly pinned against his back. He made his way through the crowd.

The hooded figure was panting as she was thrown to the floor in front of Amarantha's throne. Tamlin looked down at her.

Rhysand was pushing his panic down, down, down-

The Attor gripped her hood and pushed it back.

"Familiar, Tamlin?" Amarantha sneered at Tamlin, standing up suddenly. She blocked Rhysand's view of the girl.

He couldn't look- her starlight eyes-

Tamlin said nothing. The girl began sobbing in earnest. Amarantha gripped the girl by her hair, which Rhysand could see was dark and matted with what looked like dirt and blood.

Amarantha dragged her forward, throwing her at Tamlin's feet. The girl looked up at him with brown eyes.

He let out the breath he had been holding.

The relief Rhysand felt was immense. The guilt he was slammed with next snuffed that relief out. It wasn't her… he wasn't quite sure why he cared so much.

These emotions were like torrents, mixing with the alcohol in his system.

"I suppose she is somewhat beautiful, with those high cheek bones." Amarantha growled. "Supple breasts, curves that our women do not possess. Vulgar, some would say. Tasteless. But I suppose I understand."

Tamlin ripped his gaze from the girl, to look at Amarantha. After a moment, he only said one word, his voice hoarse with disuse. "Don't."

Maybe Tamlin was smarter than Rhysand gave him credit for. With one word, Tamlin had sealed this girl's fate. But with the one word as well, he had protected that woman with starlight eyes.

Rhysand could feel Tamlin's relief seeping through his shields as well.

"Don't?" Amarantha laughed, a high, shrill sound. It made Rhysand's ears ring. "You thought you could convince this human girl, who so obviously fears us so, to love you? No wonder you were unsuccessful." The crowd laughed around her, more scattered than usual due the large portion of the group belonging to the other High Lords.

Four red headed brothers moved to the front of the crowd. They were smirking. Eris led the group, smiling the widest at the human girl.

"Please. I've never seen him before…," the girl whispered through her tears. She was shaking.

Something clenched painfully in Rhysand's chest. He ignored it.

"Don't poison my ears with your lies, girl." Amarantha snapped. The girl whimpered. "Perhaps you are wondering at how I tracked down your human, my dear Tamlin. You see, Rhysand has such a lovely gift. He reported back to me exactly what you tried to do just days ago."

Russet and green eyes glanced at him. The russet remained, staring at Rhysand. Tamlin quickly looked away, staring back down at the girl.

Rhysand wondered if they were thinking on exactly why he hadn't spoke up, obviously noting that this girl was much different than the one he had met just a few days ago.

"Clare Beddor." Amarantha spat her name. "What a disgustingly human name… and of course, for you to bring her to your court, she is a murderer as well."

Lucien's gaze remained on Rhysand's face. _Don't be foolish, Lucien…_ Rhysand wanted to say. He glanced away from the girl, looking directly into Lucien's own eyes, gripping his mind subtlety. _Look away, you fool,_ Rhysand hissed into his mind before releasing him.

Lucien's gazed moved to the girl on the floor. He was curious, but no idiot. Tamlin's relief had turned to rage in the meanwhile, no little bit of that raged directed at Rhysand. Tamlin knew that this girl's fate was directly linked to his words.

Clare was shaking on the floor. "Please, I didn't hurt anyone…"

"Admit it. You hate us. You are jealous of our beauty and our power. So, when you saw a faerie, defenseless, you killed him. You hunted him like he was no more than a beast for slaughter." Amarantha sneered back to her intensely.

"I never hurt anyone… I've never hunted, I don't even know _how_ to hunt. Please. I'm not who you are looking for. Let me go." Clare begged, her voice weak. Tears were streaking down her face, creating a river of copper as dried blood dripped from her face.

"Liar. You're nothing but a murderer and a liar. I think I shall enjoy breaking you."

Tamlin made no movement to stop her. He was silent, unyielding.

Rhysand couldn't let it happen.

But… he must. He never thought Amarantha would bother to find a human girl by that name, he should have known that this name belonged with a person… that it wasn't just made up… but he had been distracted. And desperate.

It was his fault this girl was here. It was his fault this girl was going to die.

"Attor. Bring out the brands. Her family met their fates through fire, so perhaps it is fitting she meets her own through it as well." Amarantha was grinning, fiddling with the long bone around her neck as a necklace. Jurain's eye was examining the girl from that same hand.

 _Shit. Shit…_ there was nothing Rhysand could do to save this girl from her fate, not without risking everything he had worked for over the past 49 years. And he had done enough to risk these things over the past month…

As Clare began sobbing again, begging for her life, Rhysand gently entered her open-book, human mind. He stroked in with a gentle claw and spoke in her mind. All the while, he was looking at his tunic, examining it for dust.

 _Do not respond to me… I am a friend. I cannot save you. But I can make this easier… I will keep you from the pain. I will keep you from the fear… but you must do one thing for me._

Clare stopped crying for a minute, taking a deep breath before bursting back into tears. She looked around.

Perhaps he should have controlled her.

 _What?_ _Who are you?_ Clare thought back.

 _A friend. You must listen… scream, when I tell you too. Like you mean it. Like you're in the worst pain that you've ever felt._

Rhysand was looking around the room with a look of boredom on his face.

 _O-o-okay…_ Clare thought back, her thoughts just as scattered as her sobbing.

And so Rhysand did as he promised, protected the girl he had single-handedly condemned to this fate from suffering the full consequences for his actions.

Amarantha began by strapping her to her favorite stained torture table, forcing the girl to lay flat on her back, arms and legs strapped to the table below her. Her head was strapped down so as she vomited, choked, she gasped for air.

Rhysand tucked her away, curled her soul into some back corner of her consciousness. With the right push of his claws, she felt no pain. He hummed to her, a short little tune that Livana loved to sing as she cleaned. She had whimpered at first, scared of him, scared of everything but with time, as her body struggled, she lulled into a dreamlike state.

That first night Amarantha broke her fingers and her arms, telling her to admit she was a liar. Admit that she was murderer.

"Tell me! Tell me what you are!" Amarantha had roared as the Attor broke yet another one of her fingers.

Clare had screamed, cried. Just as Rhysand told her to. Just as Rhysand _controlled_ her to.

The crowd was at first aroused with the scent of Clare's blood, laughing as she cried. Begging for more… but as Amarantha broke her, the crowd also broke down. As Amarantha screamed for the lies to be spewed for her lips, the crowd grew uncomfortable. Many members of court entered back into their dance, withdrew to the back of the room.

Only the most despicable of Amarantha's Court remained to watch. Including Tamlin and Rhysand.

Occasionally, Rhysand glanced over Tamlin both with body and mind. Externally, Tamlin watched, impassive. His face blank, his body relaxed. No sign of the beast inside.

Internally… Tamlin's mind resembled a knot. A very, very messy knot.

Rhysand could relate.

When Amarantha had destroyed her hands, burned her with brands until the skin on her chest was black and oozing, Rhysand had enough.

He took away her consciousness, sealing her in that safe spot of her mind.

And with a swipe of her hands, he knocked her into a deep sleep.

When the Attor again brought forth a three-lined brand, a symbol of Amarantha's rule, and pressed it to flesh about her left breast, Clare did not scream. She did not react. She laid limply on the table.

"Hmm. It appears our little bird is taking a nap." Amarantha cackled. She looked down at Jurian's swirling eye. "Humans. So weak, so easily broken. We will have to be careful with her."

Rhysand swallowed. Clare's breaths were labored, wet.

Tamlin was a statue. Lucien was standing near some members of the Winter Court, clutching a glass of wine like it was a life line. He was staring at the human girl, a green tinge in his face.

Rhysand wondered what exactly Beron had done to Lucien's lover all those years ago.

Amarantha stood, waving a lazy hand at the Attor. "Lock her back up, creature. Heal her a bit. We wouldn't want her to die so quickly." She smiled.

The Attor and a few of his cronies unlatched the girl and threw her like a sack over his shoulders. As the crowd parted, Amarantha regarded her crowd.

"Alas, it grows late. I fear if we continue our revels through the night, there would be no one left standing to dance tomorrow." Amarantha giggled graciously. The court laughed nervously beneath her.

"Rhysand. Tamlin. Come." She said without looking behind her, stepped carefully from the dais. She sundered towards the door.

Rhysand's head was still swimming from the wine as he quietly followed, Tamlin a hulking shadow behind him.

The crowd stared them down, accusing, curious. Jealous and angry at once.

The wine was making the swirling minds around Rhysand a whirlpool, enticing and deadly.

This was odd, for her to so proudly lead him to her room. He felt like a prized animal, primed and on display. Even odder for her to lead Tamlin in behind them.

His stomach was churning, nauseated from the sour wine, the torture and the uncertainty.

As they roomed the hallways, eyes met his face. _Whore… slave… whore…_ alternating thoughts between Rhysand and Tamlin.

They reached Amarantha's door, and she pushed it open, ushering the two High Lord's in behind her.

 _Great._ He was in a bedroom, reeking of spice and fear. His two worst enemies were in the room with him. And Rhysand was drunk. Nauseated. And now would be expected to _perform…_

Tamlin had paused in the doorway, finally putting two and two together. His eyes took in her four-poster bed, covered in black silk and furs. He took in the fire in the hearth. And then he took in the red-haired witch who smiled at him the way a cat would smile at a mouse.

His face was still impassive, even if his body had betrayed him in his hesitation.

"Excuse me, one moment, Your Majesty," Rhysand said gruffly, suddenly aware he was going to be ill.

Amarantha barely looked at him.

Rhysand rushed to her bathroom, a room he had been in sparingly. After he purged his stomach, washed out his mouth, chewed some mint leaves and splashed some sobering water on his face he returned.

He knew better than to leave Amarantha waiting.

When he returned, Tamlin was sitting in the lounge chair near the fire which had been turned so he was forced to look at the bed.

Amarantha was laying in the bed, nothing but a sheer robe covering her bare body.

Rhysand's stomach turned again, but for a different reason. _Really?_

She was going to make Tamlin, his worst enemy, _watch_ as she forced him to fuck her.

This was a whole new form of torture.

The vulnerability, the vulgarity… all on display.

He wished for the protection of that shield of apathy now more than ever.

"Come here." Amarantha murmured, her eyes still on Tamlin.

Rhysand knew this command was not meant for Tamlin.

So Rhysand approached her. He placed that cocky smile across his face. What little shield he had left…

As he reached her, he grabbed her hand. Kissed up her arm, up her neck. Green eyes bore into the back of his head.

Amarantha took him on his back.

Tamlin's eyes bore into his face, his body. Refusing to look at the witch.

Rhysand could feel the disgust seeping from Tamlin like a perfume.

As Amarantha cried out, looking at Tamlin as Tamlin looked to Rhysand, he couldn't help but wonder how long Tamlin would hold out against the Queen.

Forever, even to the immortal fae was an impossible amount of time.

As Amarantha closed her eyes, throwing back her head as she reached climax, Rhysand entered Tamlin's mind.

He could feel Tamlin recoil as he sensed his invasion.

 _Welcome to rest of eternity, Tamlin._

* * *

Poor Rhys... I think I say that at the end of every chapter.

I guess there can be no rainbow without the rain and all that junk...

Review!


	9. Trying to be Sober

Hiya, guys.

I've got a long chapter for you all...

I'm so excited for this part of the story. Even if it is just more misery for Rhys...

As usual, enjoy and review!

P.S. This chapter has lots of torture scenes... and dialogue from Chapter 34 of ACOTAR. This dialogue is not my own, it is all S. J. Maas's so respect that queen!

* * *

The days dribbled slowly through Rhysand's consciousness, just as cold and unforgiving as snow melting off the mountain side.

After Tamlin's 'welcoming party', Rhys had sworn off alcohol… for the time being.

The lack of chemical barrier was draining.

Each day started late, much of Amarantha's court staying up late into the night to enjoy the fresh screams and indulgences the twilight hours offered.

Not that Rhysand was able to discern much of what was day and what was night, a symptom that had been plaguing him for forty-nine years. He woke in his own bed when his body was rested, thankfully thrown from the room after Amarantha was done with torturing Tamlin and Rhysand alike.

He was empty. Hopeless. More drained than he had been in a long time. Despite his better instincts Rhysand had let himself begin to hope again, that glimmer of starlight enough to thaw his frozen soul… And once that hope was flickering and burning, Amarantha had blown it out.

Again.

He wished more than anything to go back to that comfortable state of apathy, the one when he didn't hate himself as much nearly as much as he hated Amarantha, the one where he was only ruled by boredom, rage and as much as he hated to admit it, _acceptance._

But, those eyes, the ones that stripped him bare from the moment he had seen them, had destroyed the Rhysand created from nearly a half a century of servitude.

Now, Rhysand was barely able to conceal his distain, and oh he hated, _loathed_ the red-haired witch who ruled Prythian. He couldn't tolerate that new hole left his in chest, the hole that had been filled from the moment he had smelled that familiar scent flowing through the Calanmai crowd.

The hole that had been ripped open when Tamlin arrived at Amaratha's Court, as what little hope he had of freedom was officially over.

Not that it wasn't partially Rhysand's fault… he _had_ scared Tamlin into sending her away.

Some feral part of him couldn't bear the idea of that human girl in Tamlin's court, loving him. Freeing him. And then… he imagined Amarantha grinning as she placed those delicate hands in a set of iron manacles.

Those beautiful hands. As she had painted the table, the trimmings of her house, the canvases in the Spring Court she had painted a picture of a normal life. A life where the innocent were protected by the strong, the cruel punished, and peace reigned. A place where a beautiful human painter could paint the beautiful sky… while Rhysand watched from the shadows.

In this world, Rhysand was stuck in only the darkest and most cruel of shadows. There would be no freedom to paint here. Not in Amarantha's world.

Rhysand weathered the nights, a hole in his chest, no alcohol to patch it and a sudden disinterest in the soft skin of other courtiers.

He wasn't sure how long he could go survive before he cracked. Only the thought of Velaris, of his warded city and court keep his feet under him. Kept him from wrapping his hands around the Queen's pale neck… even if Tamlin did watch. Rhysand knew he would like watching _that_ at least.

Just as Tamlin would like watching as Amarantha cleaved her power through Rhysand's chest.

Tonight was day six of Amarantha's most absolute rule over Prythian, day six of Tamlin's trial. Or maybe night. Rhysand was no longer sure. He had been spoiled by the opportunity to see the sky the past couple months.

He put on his show, a guise of cruelty and amusement. The perfect servant, the dark prince. The only ones who saw through it were Nuala and Cerridwen… Not that anyone saw them in turn.

The first three days had crawled by, and he had passed the evenings with careful counting of the pillars in the throne room. When Clare was brought up from the prison, as she was nightly, he concentrated on perfecting her screams. He clarified the nightmares in her mind.

Tamlin was a statue, his green eyes baring down on the girl. His face was impassive, his body calm.

The only sign of his distain was the swirling storm inside.

On day six, Rhysand had ran out of stones to count in the throne room. He compromised by dancing with a green-skinned lesser faerie from the Summer Court, if the color of her palm-leaved skin was any indication. She made exactly two hundred and forty-four steps before their dance was over, she breathed deeply twenty-five times, and only stepped on his feet twice.

Amarantha laughed on her throne in the meanwhile, Clare already brought out and chained to the floor in front of her throne. She was a crumpled form, her body broken. Her hands were missing fingers, her back sprinkled with half-healed scars and burns, her hair ripped out in places. The queen was always careful to return her back to the jail before she broke her new toy.

Rhysand was watching her from his mind's eye, his shadows protecting her mind for whatever was coming.

Tamlin was sitting in his little throne, a dark tunic on in contrast to his Springtime features.

Amarantha's Court was a dark force, enticing and violent. After days of partying, drinking, bathing in Tamlin's misery the crowd was hungry for more blood.

Rhysand didn't think he could bear any more of Clare's screams. Although induced by Rhys himself, each yowl sounded accusing in his ears. A reminder of his guilt… the fact that _he_ had sentenced this poor girl to her fate.

His only consolation remained that he knew the freckled human girl was safe in her home…

On day two, his visions had started again. Rhysand had stopped them for a period, after he realized that she was with Tamlin. He couldn't stand the color of her visions, the tone… the love. None of it meant for him.

He was jealous. This was a little fact that he had pushed back in his mind, and had somehow kept his mind from slipping back into her own over those few days…

But after Clare was returned to her cell, after Amarantha used him in front his worst enemy, after he managed to escape to his own "private" quarters, he had fretted as he stared at the black canopy above his bed. Rhysand had desperately wanted to know that the torture of the innocent human in the throne room wasn't in vain.

It had started with the vision of a human man, or perhaps boy, Rhysand had guessed based from the poor excuse for a beard on his face. Rhysand had been staring into the darkness of his room, contemplating his choices when his vision was obscured by a vision of this man. It was… blurry. Cloudy. Like looking through a dirty window. But he could feel her, her mind… her thoughts were too far to reach but he could feel the feeling of… _content._ Gratitude. The boy had his arm wrapped around another young woman, her face pretty, her hips wide. Well fed, glowing. Looking at this boy like he was her world…

His human woman had nodded her head at the boy. Rhysand was struck again with an image of the boy's face, a lantern light above it, hay in his hair. A hand fisted in the hay, wrapped in both golden-brown hair as well as the hay itself.

Rhysand had thrown himself out of her consciousness, the vision fading slowly in his eyes. His face was hot, his fists clenched beside him in the bed, his heart in his throat. It was instinctual, the fury, the _jealousy_ …

After a few swallows of damp air, the fury had faded. Her scent lingered in his nose.

At least he knew she was over the wall. Away from this hell hole. Rhysand just had to figure out now how to keep Amarantha from spreading her defilement…

Over the next few days, the visions had slowly traveled threw his consciousness. Rhysand was trying to avoid them, trying to avoid the allure of her reality. A reality that would never be his own… but it seemed that his subconscious had other plans.

So far he had managed to keep them from appearing in the presence of Amarantha, a small consolation he was thankful for.

Rhysand was thrown from his thoughts as the mind he was holding did not react as her body was hit with a sharp torrent of pain. Rhysand threw himself back into his reality, glancing from his couch in the back corner of the room to where Amarantha had hit the human girl.

The girl had been thrown to her back with a force of Amarantha's spell, her head hitting the floor with force. A smear of blood was oozing out from under what was left of her matted hair.

Amarantha was laughing, not having even stood to deliver the blow of magic. She was looking at Tamlin, who looked at Jurian's ring once before looking back to the innocent body below them.

Rhysand made her make a small whimper.

He stood and sauntered over the linger amongst the crowd nearest the Queen. He did not take his usual position behind her, having learned that she seemed to prefer having only Tamlin on the dais with her now.

Rhysand looked longingly at the wine in the corner of the room.

"Practicing a life of sobriety, Rhys? How out of character." A deep voice drawled from behind him.

Rhysand turned slightly, not turning wholly away from Clare. He needed to make sure she responded to Amarantha to appropriately or face her suspicion.

"I was curious. I haven't been sober in say… five hundred years. I wondered if perhaps I would be more productive." Rhysand gave him a smile, glancing back to the girl as Helion stood beside him.

"I suppose I understand. I can imagine being a lover to the Queen requires a large amount of… productivity."

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

A moment of silence passed, courtiers swirling around them in dance and in conversation.

"I have been watching you, Rhys." Helion muttered.

"Have you? I am flattered. Unfortunately for you, twin, I find myself more attracted to the opposite sex." Rhysand had smiled for the world around him, aware of always being watched. On display. But his quick glance at Helion's warm complexion had been a warning.

Helion said nothing, but instead sipped his wine.

"I see your sacrifice."

It was so quiet, Rhysand almost didn't hear it. By the time Rhysand tore his eyes away from his victim, Helion was gone. He had disappeared into the crowd.

He wondered for a moment he had hallucinated the whole exchange.

Rhysand was panicking a bit inside, wondering exactly _how_ much Helion saw. Helion knew about his brothers, Mor, his Inner Circle… while he didn't know about, he knew that Rhysand had somehow kept his closest members in Court from Amarantha's clutches-

The crowd hushed around him. He glanced to Amarantha's dais. The crimson witch had stood, standing above the girl who was still bleeding on the floor, her wrists at odd angles. She was smiling, holding her hand out so Jurian could get a proper look… His hazel eye was swirling.

"Ah, I do think we have played well with our little doll. But like all favorite toys, eventually they are worn out and need replacing."

Tamlin remained a statue, his golden mask flickering the faelight. The crowd was gathering around the dais. Rhysand stepped forward so no one could obstruct his view.

"Jurian, don't you think her skin is a lovely shade of red?" She cooed once at her ring. "Hmm… dear Clare, sweet, darling Clare… what ever should we do with you?"

Clare was weeping quietly, curling on her side, her bleeding head dragging a smear of blood behind her. In Clare's mind, Rhysand was again humming Livana's song, soothing.

"You have been quite a disappointment. I have not dealt much with humans in the past few centuries I admit, but I remember them to be a bit more… feisty. But I suppose over the years, the blood thins out." Amarantha crouched over the girl, a single hand petting her hair.

"And you didn't even perform enough to create a rise out of Tamlin… it's become rather boring."

Amarantha pulled at the girls matted hair, causing her to shriek. Amarantha glued Tamlin down with dark eyes. "Nothing you want to say? You did condemn this girl to her fate, after all."

Tamlin said nothing. He didn't move. Rhysand wasn't sure that he was breathing. A small voice in Rhysand's head was whispering, _I did this. I did this. I did this._

Amarantha huffed. "I tire of this. I will find a way, Tamlin. You will pledge yourself to me."

Tamlin raised one, defiant eyebrow.

Rhysand had to hold back a snort, which was much easier to hide after he remembered how Tamlin had seen him the night before.

"Attor, end this. I am sick of her soiling my floor." She let go of the girl, blood streaked over her hands. She didn't bother to clean them as she returned to her throne.

The Attor scampered forward, bowing clumsily. "The spit, Your Majesty?" His forked tongue flicked over his cracked lips.

Rhysand's stomach turned. Roasted like a pig for feast… it was one of Amarantha's favorite torture methods. Incredibly painful and slow. It burned the victim evenly over every inch of their body until they dried out to the point of death.

And it filled the throne room with a sickening stench of roasting flesh that lasted for days.

Apparently, she had gotten the idea from Jurian who had spiked Clythia to one using ash nails, keeping her weak. Jurian had let Clythia roast for three days before he grew impatient.

A muscle in Tamlin's face twitched. Amarantha luckily, wasn't looking at him.

She picked at one of her finely groomed nails. "Yes, yes. Hurry up." There was still blood on her hands.

Rhysand couldn't help but stare at those hands. Servants rolled in the spit, not bothering to bring fuel for the fire or any form of fire place.

They didn't need wood and stones when they had magic.

Eris and another of his brothers pulled to the front of the crowd, hoping to be of service. Rhysand wondered how long it would be before Amarantha killed Beron… the old bastard had power, but nothing Amarantha couldn't tame. Even Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in existence, was useless under her spell.

Clare was dragged from the floor, her hands released from her chains. She whimpered as they pulled her forward, the wounds from her missing fingers leaking blood all over the floor. There was a ball of bloody hair left where she had been laying a moment ago. The Attor grinned and snarled in her face, enjoying as she shrinked away from him, her tears clearing a path through the filth on her face.

Rhysand hummed Livana's song more loudly in her mind. He of course, made her react in this way. It didn't make it any less difficult to watch.

They wrapped her hands together with ropes, tying them tight enough to hurt. Then, the Attor began to tie her feet together. As she was tied like a pig for roasting, Amarantha's lesser fae cronies were placing the base of the spit directly in front of Amarantha's dais. Tamlin remained impassive, but his rage was a shaking force.

Clare sobbed as she was tied over the spit. She hung painfully, held up only by her hands and feet. Realizing that her hands were not enough to hold her weight, the Attor sloppily wrapped another rope around her waist.

The crowd was a force of bloodlust and fear around him. The other High Lord's lingered around the room, watching the Red Queen and the human girl. Impassive. Lucien stood by the exit of the room, his face pale. He was leaning against a back wall.

"Eris… I require your services." Amarantha smiled sweetly at the red-haired male, lingering so close by.

"I thought you would never ask, Your Majesty." Eris smiled, sauntering forward. Rhysand had to ignore the urge to scowl. He would never forgive Eris for what he did to Mor. The world could turn to dust, the ocean dried to desert and yet Rhysand would hate him.

Although Eris's mind had always been an interesting place. The fact that Eris reminded him somewhat of himself… that was his worst crime of all.

Clare whimpered and shifted her weight slightly, swaying under the rod that held her up. The Attor backed up, giving Eris a clear space to work.

Amarantha smiled lazily, looking over her victim. "Begin."

Eris reached out a hand, his pointer finger reaching towards the spit. Rhysand gripped the poor girls mind more tightly in his claws. She was calm, relaxed beneath the coverage of his shadows.

A deep orange flame ignited under her, lapping up from the floor, burning from seemingly nothing. The fire reached out a burning tongue, searing pain across her back. Clare herself was safe, protected from the pain due to Rhysand but he had to make it real…

Clare shrieked. The rod began turning, burning her evenly as her body rotated. The smell of her burning flesh filled the room. Her screams echoed off the ceiling, off the walls of the throne room. Rhysand struggled to remain impassive. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His heart thrummed in his chest.

The room was split between couriers who relished in her pain and those who held back their disgust. The smell of rage, fear and pain floated around him.

As Clare shrieked, the party continued, the courtiers dancing with even more vigor. Those who were not drinking chugged glasses of faerie wine. Those who could not bear to look turned their attention to other activities. Amarantha was grinning like a fox and watching Tamlin with vigor.

Rhysand stared at the blood still smeared over her hands, her arms.

Hours passed. Eris maintained a stream of fire, and when he grew tired one of his brothers took over his post. He could Beron and Lady of Autumn Court near the back of the room. Beron looked bored, but the lady… her auburn eyes were shining.

Clare continued to cry, to scream. Her skin was blistering, red, and wilting.

Rhysand felt like he was choking on her scent. He had returned to his couch in the back of the throne room. He watched impassively as the crowd swirled around him. A few women tried to catch his eye but tonight he ignored them.

Each shriek coming from Clare shook his bones. There was a sense of finality in them, a symbol of the end. It was done. Tamlin was here, forever. There was no longer a way out of Amarantha's reign. That human girl that Rhysand had gone to the ends of the world to protect… he would never see her again. She was safe, across the wall. With some practice, her visions would stop distracting him.

Then Rhysand could focus on the rest of his miserable existence. Alone except for his shadowed wraiths… alone in his suffering, his sacrifice.

Clare, although unaware of it, had been tortured. Emotionally, physically. Her body was now failing her, the couriers even growing disgusted and disgruntled with her screams and the scent of her burning flesh. Each breath, each scream reminded him that he was the fool who had told Amarantha her name. He was the fool who hadn't realized Clare Beddor was more than a fake name, an alias.

When Rhysand could no longer take Clare's screams, he gathered her mind into his claws.

It was like trying to hold water in an open palm. Her body was black, twisted, burning. Her heart beating at an impossible pace.

Rhysand watched as Amarantha stared at Tamlin, smug.

He took a deep breath. One of his hands gripped the arm of the couch until his fist was white. No one was watching him. He was alone.

With a careful swipe of his claws, Rhysand wiped Clare from existence. Her mind, her human thoughts, her innocence… gone. All that was left was her body.

Then he slowed her heart, her flesh and blood yielding to his power.

Fae began to slow their dancing to glance at the human girl, hearing the slowing of her heart threw the chatter and music. It appeared that not just Tamlin and himself were listening, watching, praying for the peace that came for death…

He prayed to himself as her heart ground to a stop. _Let her enter eternity. Let her fear no evil. Let her feel no pain._

When the silence came from her death, he rested back against the couch. His hand shook as he rested his chin on it. He hadn't realized how her heart beat had stalked him until the silence of it finally reigned. Quieting all other activity in the room.

Although the off-kilter music continued, the room was oddly silent. A moment for the innocent.

A moment for the human girl who should have never been in this room. A moment for all those who had been smothered by Amarantha's rule.

A hundred eyes or more were staring at the blackened, burned body.

Amarantha glanced up from her throne, aware of the sudden change in atmosphere.

The crowd sputtered to a stop… and then restarted back to the party with renewed vigor.

Amarantha straightened the crown on her head. He wasn't sure that she evened noticed her human doll was dead.

The fae began to dance again, looking anywhere but at the queen or the human corpse sitting in front of the dais.

A set of golden eyes stared at Rhysand from across the crowd.

 _I see your sacrifice._

He glanced once at Helion's burning gaze, looking away quickly. He made sure he seemed relaxed, unshaken. His reflection casual, his shirt immaculate.

He stared at Amarantha's blood covered hands from across the room.

Cauldron, he wasn't sure he could do this much longer.

He thought briefly of what he had told Tamlin that first night.

 _Welcome to the rest of eternity, Rhys._

* * *

Amarantha had pinned Clare's body to the wall of the cavernous throne room, directly above her throne. So that all who looked upon her knew who she was, what she could do. How she hated humans.

Lovely.

The night Clare had died moved slowly. Rhysand sat on his black leather couch in the back of the room, ignoring the women who tried to catch his eye. He wasn't in the mood for distractions. He watched as the Attor and the like flew the girl up on the wall, drove pins through her corpse into the stone wall.

Her blood dripped down the wall behind Amarantha.

After another night of making Tamlin watch as Rhysand was used by Amarantha, Rhysand was hanging onto his life by a thread. His city, his friends depending on him. But… he could feel Clare's watery eyes staring him down. The eyes of those children, empty and staring. Starry eyes that looked at him like he was a monster. He couldn't remember how his friends looked, their faces were like blurs. But he could picture those he had destroyed, murdered for Amarantha's sake with perfectly clarity.

He was brooding, and while he knew that wasn't wise, he didn't particularly care. He sat with a glass of water in one hand, resting the stem of the glass against his leg. His other hand supported his chin while his arm leaned up against the arm of the couch.

It was the night after her death and her corpse remained. Her blood had dried, turning the stone black. Amarantha wore a glimmering black dress, a dress that Rhysand suspected was in mockery to the girl's death. There was still an underlying scent of burning flesh.

Maybe Amarantha would think he was unhappy because she was attempting to replace him with Tamlin. Not that he would ever truly be free of her… even if Tamlin gave in to her demands, became her lover, her consort, Rhysand would always be there to control minds for her. To read them, to manipulate them. To destroy them.

A shadow moved in the corner of his vision, at odds with the colorful dresses of the Amarantha's court.

He reached out with his mind, searching for those familiar shadowy minds.

A swirling whirlpool lingered nearby, lurking in the shadows behind his couch. He took a careful sip of his water, pretending to watch the crowd. He put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. Amarantha was lounging on her throne, watching the crowd with dark eyes. She was playing absent mindedly with the finger bone on her necklace.

 _High Lord._

 _Hello wraith. How can I help you?_

 _The Inner Circle… they have heard of Tamlin's return to court._

 _Indeed. I'm sure they heard this news from the shadows, no doubt…_ Rhysand gave a small smirk. One that promised trouble.

 _They wondered… if there was any plan. If you had discovered anything that would allow freedom. The wards are strong, the white demon had noted few probes into our court. Much less than before Tamlin's capture._

 _Hmm… yes, I'm not surprised by that. Amarantha is more distracted by Tamlin at the moment._ Rhysand turned his gaze back to Tamlin who was wearing the warrior leathers today and an empty Illyrian baldric. Amarantha had of course stripped him of his knives upon arrival. Rhysand took satisfaction that the knives he had once gifted his friend were now hiding in some room full of the courier's weapons.

There was a disturbance in the hallway, just past the entryway to the throne room. Someone was being dragged forward by the Attor or one of his ilk if the scratching gait was any clue.

The Attor strolled into the room, gripping a hooded figure by the arm. He was dragging the figure forward to the front of the dais, and as he did the court turned to watch his approach. Some continued to dance but most stopped where they were, interested in a turn of events. Rhysand looked at the figure in lazy interest.

It was probably just another attempted escape. What did it matter? It made things no different to him.

 _I have no plan now. It seems Amarantha's reign may be a permanent one._ He finished off his water, setting it on the table in front of him.

The figure was thrown to the floor at Amarantha's feet, their knees hitting the stone with a sickening crunch. They caught themselves, slowly pushing themselves up from the floor with one hand. They remained crouched, almost as if they were going to bolt. As they looked up, their hood fell away from their face.

Golden-brown hair shine as the faelight flickered around them. She had braided it back out of her face, but the bottom layer of her hair fell down her back in loose curls. She was wearing leather leggings over a black tunic, two daggers at her belt. A shortbow was strung across her back, now covered by her hood. Mismatched arrows gleamed from their place in her quiver. As she slowly looked up from her crouched position in the floor, Rhysand got a glimpse of blue-grey eyes.

Rhysand stood involuntarily. _No_. The horror he felt as he took in her rounded ears, the freckles across her face, her cheeks shadowed by Amarantha's throne room… it was unlike anything he had felt before. His heart was in his throat, pounding so hard he thought he might choke on it. His hands were fisted by his side.

 _Rhysand?_ A shadowy voice whispered in his mind.

Those blue grey eyes flickered from Amarantha on her throne to Tamlin, lounging in his smaller bronze throne. Tamlin didn't react to seeing his human woman here, but… Rhysand reached out his mind. The horror on the inside thankfully, wasn't piercing through the outside.

Lucien was standing along the wall as usual, the horror clear on his face. But, almost as quick as Rhysand had glimpsed it, his face was impassive.

"What's this?" Amarantha smiled in that cruel way of hers.

The human girl thought about grabbing one of the daggers at her side. Her mind was so familiar to Rhysand, even now… he could smell her floral scent from the back of the room. He placed a curious, lazy smile across his face. He crossed his arms across his chest to hide the clawed fists. The wraith was silent.

 _No. No. No. No._ Each beat of his heart pounded.

"Just a human thing I found downstairs," the Attor hissed, flickering its tongue. He shifted uncertainly, as though afraid he had done the wrong thing.

"Obviously," Amarantha ground out, each syllable carefully pronounced. Her darks eyes bore into the still crouching human girl.

The human girl was staring at Tamlin's boots, her face tight with fear.

"But why should I bother with her?"

"Tell Her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs – why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court." The Attor snorted. He nudged the girl with his foot, but she did not lose her balance. She looked like a statue glued to the earth.

 _Don't tell her, don't say who you are, you just stumbled down here by accident…_ Rhysand was begging her. His heart still pounded, his mind swirling.

A moment passed. The throne room was silent. Even the musicians had stopped to listen.

The Attor kicked her hard this time and growled, "Tell Her Majesty, you human filth."

She thought about stabbing the Attor instead.

Then, she straightened, her movements fluid and graceful for a human. Her scent hit him with enough force that he almost stumbled back.

The woman stared at Amarantha's crown, opened her mouth and then, "I came to claim the one I love."

A new hole, one that hadn't existed before opened in Rhysand's chest. _She was safe, she was safe, I couldn't save her, no, no, no…_

He was holding his breath.

"Oh?" Amarantha leaned forward on her throne. Her face turned to the razor-sharp edge, the one she wore before she killed someone.

"I've come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court," the girl said quietly, but not weakly.

The crowd around her gasped, the High Fae a mixture of fear and glee at this new development. Rhysand struggled to take a breath.

Amarantha let out a laugh. A chill trickled down his spine at the sound.

She turned to Tamlin, baring her teeth at him in some guise of a smile, "You certainly were busy all those years. Developed a taste for human beasts, did you?"

Tamlin managed to keep his face impassive. He breathed evenly. Rhysand shoved his hands in his pockets as he realized Amarantha didn't recognize the lie yet, she didn't know he told her the wrong name… she thought Tamlin had managed to bring two girls to the Spring Court.

The star-eyed woman's face turned to despair as she took in the lack of reaction from her dearly beloved.

"But, it makes me wonder – if only one human girl could be taken once she killed your sentinel …" Her face lit up in excitement. "Oh, you are _delicious._ You let me torture that innocent girl to keep this one safe? You lovely thing! You actually made a human worm love you. Marvelous." Rhysand hid his wince as Amarantha quickly discovered the lie. Amarantha clapped her hands, facing Tamlin to observe his reaction.

Tamlin actually looked away from her, suddenly making direct eye contact with Rhysand. His fury was palpable from across the room, the scent of it coming in waves. It was clear who he blamed for this.

"Let him go." The human girl said evenly, her despair quickly hidden. The angle of her brows, the tightness of her lips… she looked _intimidating._

Amarantha crowed out another bone chilling giggle. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't destroy you where you stand, human."

He swore his heart stopped completely.

The girl's heart was loudly pounding in his place. "You tricked him – he is bound unfairly."

Tamlin had stopped breathing as well. With his stone heart… it was difficult to sense any reaction beyond what Rhysand could feel.

Amarantha clicked her tongue, looking at Jurian's swirling eye. "You human beasts are so uncreative. We spent years teaching you poetry and fine speech, and that is all you can come up with? I should rip out your tongue for letting it go to waste." Her voice shook with anger.

"But I'm curious: What eloquence will pour from your lips when you behold what you should have been?" Amarantha pointed above her, to the corpse of Clare pinned to the stone wall.

The human girl shifted her eyes up, her face paling as she took in Clare's desecrated form. Her heart was running at a desperate pace.

"Perhaps I should have listened when she said she'd never seen Tamlin before," Amarantha smirked. "Or when she insisted she'd never killed a faerie, never hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was delightful. I haven't heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours."

It was Rhysand's turn to pale. Amarantha was full of herself, and cruel, but she was no idiot. She knew Rhysand could have stolen her name from her mind if he truly wanted.

The girl was white, staring at the corpse in horror. Her thoughts poured out of her, impossible for Rhysand to ignore. _I killed her. I saved myself, and I killed her._ She was blaming herself this whole time… instead of blaming the person who was responsible for all of this.

 _It should have been me._

Rhysand blinked back the stinging in his eyes. No, it should have been him… he did this. Not her.

"Come now, precious. What have you to say to that?"

The desperation turned to rage in the human. She continued to stare at the body, although her face reddened. She was wondering how Tamlin could have allowed this… all the while, Rhysand wondered how _he_ could have allowed this.

"Do you still wish to claim someone who would do that to an innocent?" Amarantha purred at her. Rhysand, not for the first time, wondered if she could read minds.

The woman snapped her eyes back to Amarantha, baring her teeth at Amarantha. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Amarantha bared her teeth right back.

Despite himself, despite the horror, there was something decidedly _sexy_ about the sheer female aggression between these two.

Amarantha gave in first. She leaned back, crossing her legs beneath her black gown. "Well, Tamlin." She reached over, brushing her fingers along his arm. "I don't suppose you ever expected this to occur." She waved a lazy hand at the human.

The crowd laughed nervously around them.

"What do you have to say, High Lord?"

Tamlin stared at the girl. Then, he said the first words he had spoken since his imprisonment, "I've never seen her before. Someone must have glamoured her as a joke. Probably Rhysand."

Tamlin flicked his eyes from her, back to Rhysand's own.

Now it was Rhysand's turn to be raging. How _foolish_ , to speak, to react now. Giving it _away_.

"Oh, that's not even a halfway decent lie." She tilted her head. "Could it be- could it be that you, despite your words so many years ago, return the human's feelings? A girl with hate in her heart for our kind has managed to fall in love with a faerie. And a faerie whose father once slaughtered the human masses by my side has actually fallen in love with her, too?" She snorted. "Oh, this is too good- this is too fun."

She played with that necklace around her neck and turned her dark eyes to Jurian's hazel eye. "I suppose if anyone can appreciate this moment, it would be you, Jurian." She smiled. "A pity your human whore on the side never bothered to save you, though."

The girl turned somewhat green. Tamlin was staring at her again, impassively. Hopefully, recognizing his own mistake.

Amarantha signed, leaning back in the throne again. "Things have been awfully boring since Clare decided to die on me. Killing you outright, human, would be dull. But Fate stirs the Cauldron in strange ways. Perhaps my darling Clare had to die in order for me to have some true amusement with you."

Rhysand's stomach was churning. He was still standing awkwardly by the couch.

"You came to claim Tamlin? Well, as it happens, I'm bored to tears of his sullen silence. I was worried when he didn't flinch while I played with darling Clare, when he didn't even show those lovely claws …" She glanced once at Tamlin's hands, resting comfortably on the sides of his throne.

"But I'll make a bargain with you, human," Amarantha murmured, leaning forward. The girl raised her eyebrows.

 _It's a trap, it's a trap, don't do it…_ Rhysand wanted to scream. But he didn't. He was just as useless as the rest of them.

"You complete three tasks of my choosing – three tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, to prove to me, to darling Jurian, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord."

As he heard these words, he was in disbelief. Amarantha didn't _play_ games with freedom. Even with humans… but, perhaps it _had been_ a long time since she had dealt with humans. Perhaps she had forgotten how 'fiesty' they could be.

He had to gasp out a breath as his head was spinning. Breathing, yep, that was important. Even to High Lords.

But he wasn't alone in his disbelief. Even those who often bathed in glee at Amarantha's reign… they were staring intently between the two. Holding their breaths.

"Consider it a favor, High Lord – these human dogs can make our kind so lust-blind that we lose all common sense. Better for you to see her true nature now."

Tamlin remained impassive.

"I want his curse broken, too," the girl spit out suddenly.

Amarantha raised a delicate red eyebrow, smirking.

"I complete all three of your tasks, and his curse is broke, and we – and all his court – can leave here. And remain free forever."

It was utterly silent in the throne room now. Not a single faerie was breathing.

"Of course." Amarantha crooned.

Rhysand snapped his stare from that beautiful human girl, to stare at Amarantha. Lucien's mouth was open in disbelief.

"I'll throw in another element, if you don't mind – just to see if you're worthy of one of our kind, if you're smart enough to deserve him." Jurian's eye spun more than it had in a century. Amarantha glared at her ring a moment.

"I'll give you a way out, girl. You'll complete all the tasks – or when you can't stand it anymore, all you have to do is answer one question. A riddle. You solve the riddle, and his curse will be broken. Instantaneously. I won't even need to lift my finger and he'll be free. Say the right answer, and he's yours. You can answer it at any time – but if you answer incorrectly…" Amarantha pointed to the corpse above her throne.

Rhysand thought his heart would explode in his chest. Half of him wanted to run from this room, throwing the girl over his shoulders, screw his powers and his city, and fly to some cave far, far away from this place. The other half… well, something was blooming in the other half.

The human girl swallowed once. "And what if I fail your tasks?"

Amarantha smiled a snake's smile. "If you fail a task, there won't be anything left of you for me to play with."

The woman shivered once. It would be so foolish for this girl to think she could outwit the Deceiver herself… but _if_ she could. Her voice was weaker than before, "What is the nature of my tasks?"

"Oh, revealing that would take all the fun out of it. But I'll tell you that you'll have one task every month – at the full moon."

 _Three months?_ A shadowy voice again whispered in the antechamber of his mind. Rhysand almost jumped. He had forgotten his wraiths were here.

"And in the meantime?" She glanced at Tamlin once, hopefully.

"In the meantime," Amarantha snapped, "you shall either remain in your cell or do whatever additional work I require."

Rhysand didn't like the sound of that one bit.

"If you run me ragged, won't that put me at a disadvantage?"

Amarantha rolled her eyes, growing bored. "Nothing beyond basic housework. It's only fair for you to earn your keep."

The girl nodded once.

"Then we are agreed?" Amarantha cooed.

"If I complete your three tasks or solve your riddle, you'll do as I request?" The girl said, trying to ensure there were no loopholes to their deal.

Rhysand saw a glaring one… but he could not speak up. He could not contact her without ruining everything. So… he stayed silent, his heart in his throat. The room remained deathly silent.

"Of course. Is it agreed?" Her dark eyes bore into the girl's own.

The horror in himself matched the horror he felt pouring out of Tamlin.

Tamlin was pale. He made eye contact with the girl, his body relaxed but… she stared back at him. In her eyes, something more than Rhysand had ever experienced poured from her. Love. And under his gaze, she stood straighter. Her face gained back its color.

A beast inside Rhysand roared.

"Well?" Amarantha snapped. The Attor was pacing behind her.

The girl stared at Tamlin for another moment, before she looked back at the Red Queen, her face determined. "Agreed."

Rhysand felt the magic building up like a wave from Amarantha, even as she smiled and snapped her fingers. He felt it settle in his bones, tingling past his face. It smelled like iron and rot. He blinked in disbelief, in horror at what just happened.

Amarantha looked to the Attor, as the girl looked unsettled by the magic. "Give her a greeting worthy of my hall."

The Attor hissed in anticipation as his cronies pounced on her. He hit her hard in the face with a clawed hand.

Rhysand forced himself to sit back down as the bones crunched in her face. Her nose was certainly broken, blood pouring down her face. A black skinned faerie ripped her quiver and bow from her back, as the Attor continually punched her in the face. Her face was already swelling.

He placed a shaking hand in front of his mouth, unable to look away.

 _You are being watched, master._ He snapped his gaze away, quickly adjust his body language to a more appropriate form. He rested his shaking arm on the arm of the couch.

He could feel Lucien's gaze on his face.

They were spinning her between them, three of Amarantha's cruelest faeries. Punching her, kicking her.

By the time they were done, she was passed out on the floor in front of Amarantha's throne.

When Rhysand looked at Tamlin he was annoyed to see his claws had escaped from his knuckles. His face was calm, but he had given himself away.

He reached out his mind for the whirlpool nearby, watching as breaths rose and fell through her bloodied mouth.

 _I have no plan right now but… let me think._

As the crowd restarted, shadows again began to move from their position behind the couch.

Rhysand stole a glass of wine from a nearby servant, downing it in one gulp.

Well… at least he had _tried_ being sober.

As the shadows zoomed away from him, a soft voice whispered in his mind, _The commander wanted us to tell you to "Cheer up, buttercup."_

He wasn't sure if he would have been able to smile now if he tried.

* * *

Please review. :)


	10. Her Name an Invocation

Hello everyone! New chapter here! Sorry that it has been a bit, life has been keeping me super busy. I've been flying across country and working way more than is healthy.

I have to say I love writing this story, and I absolutely live for your reviews. If you are not someone who usually reviews but really enjoy my story please let me know.

It helps motivate me to write a little faster as well. :P

There is some dialog from Chapter 35 in ACOTAR, so just remember that not all of this dialog is my creation.

As usual, enjoy and review.

*P.S. yay on breaking double digit chapters!

* * *

They had let her lay at Amarantha's feet for hours, faeries accidentally stepping on her as they danced and partied.

Her gleaming hair was a mess, a crown of blood around her head. Her face was swollen, already bruising into a black and blue mess. Blood dripped from her nose onto the floor, her lips bloodied and swollen as she took shallow breaths.

Rhysand stayed in his position on the couch, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He watched her take shallow breathes, watched Tamlin silently rage. It took an hour before his claws sunk back into his fists. It was only after she was unconscious that Tamlin's rage turned into despair. Lucien creeped around the corners of the room, his brothers lurking nearby the human girl. The look on their faces made him think they were tempted to approach, to get a few kicks in, but something was holding them back. Eris lurked the closest of Amarantha's throne.

Rhysand was quietly sipping wine, his thoughts a mess in his head. She had been _safe_ , she had been across the wall. He didn't see her coming. He hadn't seen any of this coming.

Amarantha was a manic whirlwind, laughing and drinking. She was full of a life like Rhysand hadn't seen in her in many years. She giggled on her throne, sat on Tamlin's lap even as his face stayed pale and blank.

Even now, she was perched on his lap while he gripped the throne. She leaned back against his chest, her smile as sharp as a vipers.

"Lucien," She cooed suddenly; her grin even wider than before. Amarantha traced Tamlin's hand with her own, her sharp nails clicking against his own pink, normal nails.

Lucien wearily sauntered over, his metal eye whirling. He stepped carefully around the human girl, not looking at her as he passed. His hands were in his pockets, but as he approached Tamlin's throne he sketched a graceful bow. His face was serious, his hair falling in his eyes as he bowed deeply.

"How can I be of service, Your Majesty?"

"Give me your hand," her voice was soft, enticing. She reached out a pale hand in Lucien's direction, her face suddenly serious.

Lucien's autumn eyes stared at her hand for a moment, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The crowd quieted around them, a glimmer if red hair visible behind him. Eris.

After a moment, he approached placing his hand in her tiny one. Instantly, he fell to his knees. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body glowing with a pale light. Amarantha grinned again.

"What are you doing? Let him go." Tamlin's hoarse voice growled. The claws were back out.

She giggled, pulling her hand back out of his. Lucien remained on his hands and knees, his chest heaving with the force of his breaths.

"Oh, nothing bad, my love. I just gave Lucien much of his power back. Think of it as an act of good will. Something to prove my dedication to our cause."

Tamlin fell back into silence. The crowd remained frozen.

"Emissary, give us a show. Prove to your master my good will. Let me see some of that fiery power of yours." She leaned back against Tamlin's chest, now touching his claws with reverence.

Lucien struggled to his feet, opening and closing his hand as he did. His mechanical eye was fixed on behind him, perhaps in Beron's direction.

"Come now, Lucien. Show us what you can do," she cooed, her dark eyes burning.

The chamber filled with light, orange and red and blue, all the colors of flame. The air _was_ flame, a nonburning, gentle flame. It filled Rhysand with a feeling of comfort, warmth… and then it quickly shifted into a heat, a deep, burning heat filled with rage and desire. Grief.

Rhysand's skin tingled. The crowd gasped.

Amarantha laughed, clapping her hands together once. "Lovely!"

The flames disappeared. Lucien stared at his hands in disbelief. Perhaps he had more power than he had ever let on… Rhysand had felt that before. That feeling of frustration, confusion. Lucien's well of power wasn't empty… not even close. Rhysand could feel that power simmering in Lucien's mind.

Interesting. Eris had stepped back with the display.

Amarantha stood, clapping once again. A few of her cronies approached, one of them stepping on the bloodied human girl's hair as they approached. She whimpered, shifting slightly.

Lucien and Tamlin both shifted their gaze to her before quickly looking away.

"Take this one to her chambers." Amarantha bared her teeth.

The High Fae men picked up the girl roughly from under her arms. Her head rolled as they picked her up, her feet dragging on the stone floor. A torrent of blood dripped down her chin onto her grey tunic.

"Ah. What a riveting night. It is time for our unexpected guest to head to bed, just as it is time for us to put down the drinks and quiet the music. This will be a week full of drinking and celebration, all in honor of our guests. Rest, and we will continue our revels tomorrow." Amarantha cooed at the crowd, sweeping her gowns around her as she headed out behind the men carrying the human woman.

Rhysand lingered, unsure if he should follow. Tamlin was glued to his throne.

As the girl disappeared behind the archway out of the throne room, Amarantha turned to raise an eyebrow behind her.

Rhysand was on his feet before she could speak.

Tamlin and Rhysand trudged behind her, both of their eyes sticking to the head of bloodied hair as it bobbed down the hallway. Towards the prison, several layers beneath them.

They headed behind Amarantha, instead of following the girl as Rhysand expected. They walked to Amarantha's bedroom, much to Rhysand's own disappointment. Or rather, Tamlin and Amarantha's room. She was forcing him to sleep in the bed with her.

She whistled at she opened her door, both following behind her. She poured herself a glass of amber liquid as the door clicked closed behind the High Lords.

Rhysand saw the blow coming a moment before it hit him, just enough to brace himself for impact as he was thrown against the wall by a glowing wave of power.

His back slammed into the wall, his head cracking against the stone. He was blinded by bright stars, his breath thrown from his chest. Amarantha had her free hand out stretched, her white power pinning him against the wall. Tamlin was staring up at his form from next to her.

" _Clare Beddor?"_ Amarantha hissed at him.

Rhysand said nothing, he just stared down at her while he tried to catch his breath.

Amarantha took a steadying breath. He slid down the wall, landing on his feet as she let him go. "We will talk about this later. For now…" She took another sip of amber liquid. "How fun. I wonder if your human is any good at riddles, Tamlin. I think I know exactly what her riddle will be about." Her teeth gleamed in the firelight.

"Tell me. I want to know more about your human girl. How did she kill the faerie?"

Tamlin was silent. She approached him, dropping her empty glass down with a _clink._

"Oh Tamlin, don't be such a bore. All the fun is in the _details._ It must be a romantic story on how you made her love you even after she killed a faerie out of spite. Most of the best stories begin with blood." She was tracing his chin with a free finger. "I knew there was a romantic under there somewhere… I saw a glimpse of that male once upon a time." Amarantha sighed, the sound sending shivers down Rhysand's spine.

His disgust was choking him.

"Do you require my assistance in freeing his tongue, Your Majesty?" Rhysand murmured. His chest was tight, the residual panic leaving him feeling weak. Nervous.

"Not tonight, pet. Like all things, the truth will come out with time." Amarantha didn't take her eyes off Tamlin but extended an arm in Rhysand's direction. "Come."

Rhysand drug himself forward, taking her hand to pull her into his arms from behind. Tamlin, as usual, shifted his gaze from Amarantha to Rhysand. It would have made him uncomfortable if Rhysand couldn't feel the hurricane of rage and fear beneath Tamlin's meager shield.

He brushed his lips up her arm, lingering over her bare neck. She turned to liquid. Rhysand shoved that revulsion, self-loathing deep down, down, down…

* * *

When she was done with him that night, he winnowed directly into his own room. It seemed that he couldn't escape the horror he had felt from the moment he had seen her standing before the Red Queen. His heart was a quick rhythm in his chest, his hands heavy.

He settled in his chair before the fire place, sipping on a glass of whiskey, not bothering to dress. The burning in his stomach was settling his nerves, but… He couldn't get the image of how her blood had splattered from her face as the Attor punched her.

She had looked dreadful when they drug her from that room… Her face bruised, unconscious for several hours. She had laid there, her breathes even but not a hint of purposeful movement to be seen.

What if they had broken something important? What if a well-placed kick had severed her spinal cord? What if the punch to her head had resulted to blood on her brain, threatening to crush everything that made her… her?

Not only would she not be able to complete these tasks that Amarantha was forcing her to do but… she would be gone. The fiery spirit smothered with a little more than a punch to the face.

After an hour of stewing over his worry, a several glasses of whiskey, he had made up his mind.

He would gather his power, just enough to make him a shadow… he could winnow to just outside the prison. No one would know if he saw her.

No one would know.

But he _had_ to know.

He pulled the night into himself, forming himself into little more than a wraith. He was a shadow, silent. Unseen. His head swam a bit from the effort and the whiskey, and it was an afterthought to throw on a black tunic before winnowing away.

Taking one more look at himself, he took a deep breath. He hated himself for being so weak… he should just leave it be.

He winnowed into the corridor outside of the prison, full of shadows to hide in due to the dim faelight.

He was lucky in that he only had to lurk in the shadows for a few moments, waiting for some grunts to finish their nightly rounds. As they opened the door in front of them, speaking quietly about the newfound bargain to each other, Rhysand slipped in behind them into the guard room. The spit was thankfully empty at this time, and the grunts trudged over to their table. One of them pulled out a pack of playing cards.

He then waited in the shadows by the fireplace until he saw the door that lead to the entrance to the cells start to move, and with a burst of his power he was in the cell block. The grunt who had just finished prison rounds only blinked once at the breeze that passed him with Rhysand's movement.

He took a deep breath as his power shuttered. His wards were intact, his power over thousands of minds clear but… his head ached from the effort.

As quiet as the night, Rhysand wandered down the corridor. The prison was surprisingly empty, many of the prisoners having been removed in the recent partying. Only four prisoners remained tonight.

She was in the back corner, far from the others. Not that it mattered… this corridor was designed to trick the mind and silence those who screamed.

He reached her cell, and as he took her crumpled form on top of a bed of straw, something moved painfully in his chest. He used his power to physically walk through the bars, his body nothing more than wind and shadow. His head throbbed once but eased quickly as he breathed in her scent.

He leaned against the wall across from her form, sinking down to the ground, his knees stretched in front of him.

She was breathing deeply at least, that was good. Her face was a mess of bruising and swelling, her cheekbones invisible under the swelling of her eyes. Her nose severely crooked. She was wheezing slightly with each breath, trying to breath out of her nose and failing. Her bottom lip swollen and split, blood having dried down her chin. Luckily, it didn't look like she was bleeding anymore. Her hair spread out behind her in a bloody mess, her head resting on her left arm while her right was curled around her form.

She shivered slightly. Rhysand again breathed in the scent of her, the lilac and pear mixing with the coopery scent of her blood. A quick assessment using his powers showed that she was stable, no blood in her head. The relief that coursed through him with that fact was confusing.

She shivered again, shifting her hips once. She was still out cold, her mind a mess of discomfort and emotions but otherwise blank.

It was quiet in the cell, with nothing but her breathing to listen to. To count. The horror and guilt he had felt that moment he saw her in the throne room… it was being eased away with every breath she took. Her scent was like a remedy.

He threw his jacket over her, his magic providing enough warmed for him in the dim light.

He counted her breaths until his mind was empty.

He must have dozed off because he was awoken suddenly by the sound of footsteps down the hall.

With a thundering in his chest, he snatched his jacket from her, stepped quickly back into the shadows of the cell at the same time the window they used to round on prisoners flipped open. A bloodshot eye looked in quickly. The window slammed shut with a grind.

Heavy footsteps walked down the hall.

She let out a small whimper, moving a hand to her face once. She began to move her lips, her mind shifting into consciousness.

Rhysand double checked his shadows while he continued to watch.

She was able to open those beautiful eyes only slightly, the swelling taking up most of her face.

Suddenly she sat up, letting out a gasp as she did. She leaned against the prison wall like dizziness had overtaken her, her heartrate pounding in his ears. Her eyes shifted over the shadows where he was standing, before she reached a ginger hand up to feel her face.

A whimper escaped her lips as she felt over her broken nose and swollen face.

She curled her knees to her chest, the feeling of her misery and regret hitting him in the chest. He was aching, wanting to take her out of this place.

A few moments passed.

A scream screeched through the cell, followed by the cracking of the whip and more, keening, shrieks.

She shivered, pulling herself into a ball.

Rhysand swallowed once, watching her listen to the fake sounds of screaming that wandered through these halls. The sound was distorted in the jail cell, all to Amarantha's specifications. Periodically, sounds of anguish would flow through the prison although no one was being tortured. The idea was to create that sense of fear in the prisoners, but also allowing prisoners to hear the approaching of a jail guard… although they would not hear any other prisoners at any time. Isolation and fear were Amarantha's goals.

He stayed until he could no longer, taking a long look over her face before he winnowed back to his own rooms.

He would find a way to get her out. And if he couldn't do that… he would find a way to make her win. Make them all win.

He just wasn't sure how quite yet.

* * *

Rhysand washed when he returned to his room, the night having passed him by quickly. He cleaned his clothes with a wave of his hand, afraid a servant would wonder where the dirt belonged.

After he was washed, he decided to head to the training area, his nerves again itching under his skin without that human's scent to calm him.

This was really getting out of control.

He dressed in simple black, checking into the training area and selecting a one-hand sword to train with as the training guard looked at him nervously.

Rhysand had nearly taken off his arm while they had sparred several years ago, and the poor male had never really gotten over it.

As he entered the arena, a large open cavern that was filled with training dummies and the like, he was pleased to only see one other faerie.

Lucien's red-hair was like a flame as he moved through fighting stances, a scimitar in either hand.

Rhysand spread mocking smile of his face as he approached the male.

"I don't suppose you are training in preparation for breaking out Tamlin's beloved, are you Emissary?" He drawled from behind him.

Lucien nearly dropped his swords as he jumped. He whipped around, pointing a sword at Rhysand's throat.

"What do you want, Rhys?" He hissed.

"I was hoping for a sparing partner, and it appears that you are the only perspective partner around." He raised his eyebrows, raising his sword to meet Lucien's.

Lucien snorted, and without answering, spun in an attack at Rhysand's left side.

Rhysand blocked it with a simple parry, ducking from the spin of Lucien's other blade at his head.

Lucien huffed, and Rhysand let out a breathy laugh.

"You know, I wonder if Tamlin will be interested in his dear human now that perky little nose is shattered. Or perhaps it's all just a show… regardless, it seems that it's real for her."

Rhysand faked a swipe at Lucien's legs, instead ending with his sword at Lucien's throat.

Lucien knocked the hit away a little too late, the skin at his throat red with a tiny scratch from Rhys's blade.

"Don't you dare speak of her."

Rhysand laughed bitterly again. "At least someone is talking about her." He made no move to attack.

"What do you mean?" Lucien said quietly, his blades loose at his side.

"Nothing." Rhysand muttered, turning away from Lucien.

He headed back to the trainer, planning on switching out his blades for a long bow. As he walked away, he could feel Lucien's gaze on his back.

He reached out his mind carefully. He entered Lucien's mind without him feeling it… and subtlety twisted his thoughts.

 _What does he mean someone should talk about her? Why does he care?_

 _Maybe I should check on her… help her… now that I have my power back…_

Rhysand shifted his thoughts carefully, leading them in the right direction. Lucien had grown up in the Autumn Court and due to that had no little amount of self-preservation. But… Rhysand was surprised to feel the under tone of friendship and worry in his thoughts about her.

When Lucien returned his swords and headed out of the training arena to investigate, Rhysand tried to focus on shooting his arrow with enough force to destroy the dummy.

He ignored that swirling guilt in his chest, knowing it was the cost of helping her.

Desperate times call for desperate circumstances.

Rhysand tried to figure out a better reason for what he had done but… he was coming up short.

His arrow slammed through the dummy, sand flowing steadily onto the stone floor from the gaping hole he had ripped into the fabric.

This girl was changing him, changing everything.

It seemed there was no limit to what he would do for this woman. He hoped he would be able to make the right decision when the price was too high.

He lowered his bow, watching the sand spread over the ground.

* * *

Two days passed. Two unbearably, quiet days. Not a word was spoken about the human girl from anyone who mattered.

Parties rose and fell, wine and liquor drunk at a incredible pace. Amarantha's court danced, laughed and celebrated deep into both nights.

Rhysand felt like he needed to molt out of his skin, like he needed to erase himself. What he had done, who he was protecting… all of it. Now, more than ever he wondered at idea of this as forever.

He sat in either the couch, sipping wine or dancing and entertaining the crowd. A guise of who he was.

He never felt like more of a fraud than now.

On that third night, he was making subtle plans to visit the human girl. He wasn't sure why, or what he wanted to do but the lack of presence left him feeling hungover. Rhysand was looking for an excuse to see her, but… truth be told there was no excuse. He couldn't help himself.

It seemed that she would be coming to him however, a realization that didn't come to him until her scent hit him in the face. His dance partner gave an indignant, "Hey!" as he suddenly stopped, pulling himself out of her arms. He ignored her, forcing a coy smile on his face. Wandered towards the wine table with his hands in his pockets.

Two red-skinned grunts were leading her through the throne room entryway, the crowd quickly separating and quieting at her presence. Rhysand watched her as she passed, his heart in his throat. He lingered in the back of the room.

The girl's face was considerably less swollen, although Lucien hadn't taken away the bruises on her nose, jaw and under her eyes. Her nose was again straight. Her lip remained split, but the blood was gone. She must have used some of her water supply to rub the blood from her face. She walked with her head back, her spine straight. A sort of dignity that only royalty processed, something that couldn't be taught.

He sipped on his glass of wine.

She looked more a queen than that women on the throne ever would.

She scanned the crowd looking for a face that wasn't his, skipping over his face like it was nothing. She only turned back when she reached Amarantha's dais, her starlight eyes boring over Amarantha's own dark. Amarantha wore a gown of the deepest, most pompous red. Rubies were dripping from her. Rhysand had been averting his eyes most of the night from the abomination.

Amarantha grinned at her like a cat grinned at a mouse.

"You look positively dreadful." She clicked her tongue, looking to Tamlin. He stared blankly ahead. "Wouldn't you say she's taken a turn for the worse?"

The room was silent.

"You know," Amarantha leaned against an arm of her copper throne, "I couldn't sleep last night, and I realized why this morning." She slid her dark eyes over the human girl's form. "I don't know your name. If you and I are going to be such close friends for the next three months, I should know your name, shouldn't I?"

 _Shiiiiit._ Rhysand was a fool to think that he wouldn't pay for his mistake. He schooled his face into one of cruel amusement, downing his wine in a single gulp.

The girl stared up at her, the hatred and guilt pouring from her in waves so strong he didn't bother to read her mind.

Amarantha frowned when she didn't answer. "Come now, pet. You know my name – isn't it fair that I know yours?"

The Attor pushed his way through the crowd, his teeth bared in anticipation. Several red heads were swimming through the crowd as well.

The girl tensed as the Attor approached, but, _cauldron_ … she kept her mouth shut.

 _Don't tell her. Don't tell her._ Rhysand was screaming on the inside.

"After all, you're already learned the consequences of giving false names." She waved her hand, gesturing behind her towards where Clare's corpse still hung. Amarantha had spelled the scent away but enjoyed watching the fruits of her labors rot away.

Her golden-hair shimmered as she shivered and paled, keeping her eyes glued to Amarantha. Her lips remained sealed.

Rhysand felt the summons before he heard her voice.

"Rhysand." Amarantha spoke softly, her voice a sharp edge.

He set his empty glass down carefully on the table next to him, unleashing a small amount of the night. He strolled casually to stand next to the human girl, her scent mixing with blood and sweat but just as powerful as the first time he met her. Her heart pounded more quickly as he approached, her fear punching into his mind.

He stopped next to her, bowing at the waist as he looked up at the Red Queen. The human girl was looking at him without turning her head.

Amarantha did not smile at him this time. She lifted her eyebrows, her lips pressed together. "Is this the girl you saw at Tamlin's estate?"

Aware that the whole room could hear his heart beat, he forced a bored, disinterested look on his face. He controlled his heart with pure sheer will, picking a piece of lint from his tunic. He turned his eyes to the girl who was standing so close to him, glancing at her briefly.

"I suppose." He drawled, his voice dripping with distain.

"But did you or did you not tell me that girl," Amarantha hissed, pointing at Clare, "was the one you saw?"

Rhysand keep his face disinterested, putting his betraying hands in his pockets. He wasn't entirely sure they weren't shaking. "Humans all look alike to me."

She smirked at him, "And what about faeries?"

Rhysand smiled seductively at the Queen, bowing deeply, "Among a sea of mundane faces, yours in a work of art."

The woman next to him held back a laugh. It seemed that his lies didn't work on her.

Amarantha looked at him for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the human.

"What's her name?"

"How would I know? She lied to me." Rhysand lied through his teeth, aware that a least three people in the room knew his lie. This had to be a first for him… a tricky game. A game with odds that weren't in his favor. He didn't like loose ends.

The girl tensed, turning her gaze to the floor. Waiting on him to rip the answer from her mind.

"If you're inclined to play games, girl, then I suppose we can do this the fun way," Amarantha snapped her fingers at the Attor. Rhysand knew better than to turn his head and see who he was grabbing.

As the Attor pulled Lucien forward, his hair glinting in the faelight, the human stumbled forward. The panic on her face was no longer hiding beneath the surface.

When the Attor pulled Lucien in front of him, Rhysand looked down at him. His face filled with distain, but if only they knew the distain was directed at _himself._ Lucien was forced to his knees by a quick shove from the Attor.

Amarantha flicked a groomed finger in his direction. "Hold his mind." Her voice was quiet.

Rhysand stared into Lucien's auburn eye, the metal eye turned creepily to look back at Amarantha. Lucien went still as his mental existence was scooped into Rhysand's claws.

Sweat dripped down Lucien's neck as he thrashed against Rhysand's hold, but without the proper training resistance was futile. Lucien's brothers pushed to the front of the crowd, smirking as they took in the scene. Rhysand felt his eyebrow twitch once in annoyance, but it appeared no one noticed.

"Her name, Emissary?" Amarantha smiled at Lucien.

Rhysand allowed Lucien to glance once at Tamlin, and seal himself against Rhysand's grip. He would sacrifice himself if it got that far. He was impressed at his loyalty, although the fight was pointless. He could rip her name from her mind if Amarantha wanted him to, or Lucien's mind, or Tamlin's mind. Amarantha knew that… but she would rather play. Test the limits of fealty.

The smile that pushed against his lips was not out of amusement, but respect. It took balls to resist the power he had over minds. Even more balls to be willing to sacrifice yourself for others.

The human woman shuttered next to him, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

Amarantha sighed. "I thought you would have learned your lesson, Lucien. Though this time your silence will damn you as much as your tongue."

Lucien didn't answer. Rhysand stroked his mind once, his mind shuttered against his claws.

"Her name?" Amarantha snapped at Tamlin.

Tamlin ignored her, looking at neither Lucien, the human woman or Rhysand. He was glaring blatantly at Lucien's brothers.

"I don't suppose your handsome brothers know, Lucien," She purred, running a clawed nail down the arm of her throne.

"If we did, Lady, we would be the first to tell you," Eris murmured back to her. Rhysand wondered if Lucien could feel the searing rage that pierced through Rhysand when he spoke. Let him think what he wants about that.

Amarantha smiled at him sweetly, raising her hand slightly.

Rhysand gripped Lucien's mind more tightly, his claw scrapping over his existence- Lucien stiffened and groaned in response and then-

"Feyre!" The girl shouted; her voice high but mighty. "My name is Feyre."

 _Feyre._ Feyre. Fay-ruh. Rhysand stepped back involuntarily, dropping Lucien's mind immediately. Her voice… her name… her name was a question he had been asking since the day he smelled her scent and now he knew- but also _she_ knew and… it was the answer to the question he had been asking himself for the past five hundred years. He was reeling, his hands shaking in his pockets.

Feyre panted next to him, her heart pounding. Lucien was sagging on the ground.

Eris bared his teeth at her. It took all Rhysand's carefully developed self-control to not shove his face into the floor, destroy those white teeth in a shatter of dust-

"Feyre." Amarantha stated. "An old name – from our earlier dialects. Well, Feyre, I promised you a riddle."

Tamlin was staring at the floor in front of her. Rhysand still tried to grip his emotions.

"Solve this, Feyre, and you and your High Lord, and all his court, may immediately leave with my blessing. Let's see if you are indeed clever enough to deserve one of our kind." Amarantha's eye were shimmering with glee.

Feyre stared at her, pressing her lips together in determination.

" _There are those who seek me a lifetime but never we meet,_

 _And those I kiss but who trample me beneath ungrateful feet._

 _At times I seem to favor the clever and the fair,_

 _But I bless all those who are brave enough to dare._

 _But large, my ministrations are soft handed and sweet,_

 _But scorned, I become a difficult beast to defeat._

 _For though each of my strikes lands a powerful blow,_

 _When I kill, I do it slow …"_

Rhysand stared at Amarantha in disbelief, but quickly schooled his face.

Feyre was trying to absorb the words next to him, her mind blank. She had never heard this riddle, this riddle that had been the most basic of riddles of faerie children. But… as Rhysand examined her mind- he discovered things he shouldn't have.

She was illiterate, her mother never teaching her to read before she passed away from typhus, her cousin passing away from malaria. There was no reason for her to _know_ this riddle.

The crowd giggled around her, her face flushing as she realized she had no answer. No idea.

 _Love._ The answer is love. No wonder Amarantha wanted to riddle her on _love._

But… she was smart. She was clever, Rhysand could see the way her mind weaved together, her thoughts a symphony. Feyre would solve this riddle given time, he could _feel_ it.

Feyre shifted her eyes from Amarantha to Tamlin, his eyes flickering once as he looked on her. Rhysand could hear the answer in his mind from across the room. He was screaming it at her. _Love._ Love. Perhaps… what she felt was not love. Not true love.

"Think on it," Amarantha cooed at her, "when it comes to you, I'll be waiting."

The red-skinned faeries returned to pull her back to her cell, and she stumbled forward without resistance.

While Feyre was filled with hopelessness and despair… Rhysand was filled with something else entirely.

 _Feyre._ Her name had been like an invocation to some part of him that had been asleep for a long time. The part of him that allowed him to sacrifice himself for his Court… for his people. The part that allowed him to struggle through being Amarantha's whore, that started that whole idea… the whole scheme to save his people. It awoke.

Rhysand watched her bloodied, matted, golden-hair turn the corner out of the throne room and he knew that everything had changed.

He knew he would fight, for this girl, for his Court, for Prythian… he would fight dirty.

He would kill, he would manipulate, he would torture _anyone_ he had to give them a shot. To give _her_ a shot.

No longer would he accept forever under this mountain. If she was going to fight Amarantha, he wouldn't let her fight alone.

Maybe the Cauldron had given him visions of her as a message. Maybe it was more than just some elaborate plan to torture what little bit was left of his soul. Maybe it was a message of salvation, of hope. Maybe this girl, Feyre, would save them. Maybe… just maybe… she would save his people.

Save everyone.

* * *

Yay! I can finally stop calling her, "The human" and "the girl" and "the woman." She has a name. Thank gosh!

Review please and thank you :D


	11. One Of The Dreamers

Hiya everyone.

Huge chapter here for you. I hope you enjoy it, this one was super fun to write... I can't wait for what's to come.

As usual, enjoy and please review!

P.S. Sorry for any typos, I really wanted to get this one out before I head back to work this week.

* * *

 _The lights inside The House of Wind were dimmer than Rhysand remembered but he supposed that it added to ambiance. Cassian and Morrigan were having an epic thumb battle at the far end of the table, Morrigan's blonde hair falling out of the wide-braid trickling down her back. She wore one of the dresses Rhysand had 'bought' for her, a gown of deep-navy with a suspiciously long slit down one side. Honestly, some of the dresses his mother had tailored would have made even the most scandalous of his Court blush. Cassian wore his fighting leathers, only two siphons on tonight. One siphon of course was being covered by Morrigan's own hand all the while Cassian lifting his elbow off the table._

" _Oh stop it, you big buffoon!"_

" _What are you talking about? You keep accusing me of cheating when I clearly am not. It is perfectly regulation-"_

" _No, it's not!"_

 _Amren sat a few feet down their farmhouse style table, her back against the wall and feet up on the table. She clutched a silver goblet in one hand, her eyes sparkling as they gleamed off the polished surface of the cup. Her mouth was open in a smirk as she watched them argue, her teeth stained dark. Her mind was a fortress, the strongest Rhysand had ever encountered but he had no doubt she enjoyed their arguing. Her loose grey pants were sliding down her legs exposing her tiny ankles, and her tank top revealed no small amount of pale skin. Rhysand knew better than to let his eyes linge,r he had learned that lesson-_

" _Amren! You're supposed to be our referee!"_

" _Oh no, I never agreed to such a thing." She muttered, raising her eyebrows at them._

 _Azriel was sitting at the end of the table, his shadows crawling up and down his arms, curling around his ears as they whispered to him. Rhysand had thought he ruled the darkness, being High lord and what not, but he knew better than that. While Rhysand ruled the night, he could not control it, he could not so much as stop the sun from rising as he could make the sea disappear but Azriel… he could control the shadows, whisper to them, make them. He had hardly seen anything like Azriel in all his years._

 _Tonight, Azriel had his hands poised gently over the pianoforte in the far end of the room, something that was rare enough to hurt. Azriel was an excellent player, though the songs he played were often ballads that left tears in your eyes as opposed to jilting tunes that lifted the room. But tonight, he was smiling, his hazel eyes flickering up from the keys._

" _Any requests tonight, Feyre?" His lips were pressed together in a small smile, a shadow flickering on his shoulder._

 _Rhysand's heart stuttered. His eyes followed Azriel's gaze to a woman, no, a faerie who was lounging in an armchair only a few feet from the pianoforte._

 _She was wearing a dress of white gossamer, loosely cut and jeweled bands laying across her shoulders. Her arms were bear, revealed matching Illyrian tattoo's that slithered up her arms to rest just above her elbows. Tattoo's that matched Rhysand's own. Her right hand was resting on her stomach, revealing a small bump. She caressed her abdomen mindlessly, as she smiled softly back at Azriel._

 _Her starlight eyes flickered once before turning her head towards where Rhysand stood between them. "Oh, I don't know… what was that song that male played last weekend, Rhys? At Sevenda's?"_

 _Rhys? She tilted her head, pushing herself to sit up in the armchair. Her hair fell back to reveal delicately pointed ears. On her head sat a tiara of silver, a single star resting above her brow. Livana's crown._

 _Feyre… she was fae. Rhysand stared at her incredulous- she was so beautiful, her beauty only amplified by her immortal grace- and she was pregnant, at least she looked like she was and- she was wearing a crown-_

" _Rhys?" Feyre called quietly._

 _Rhysand's heart was pounding. Where was he? This couldn't be the House of Wind, no he couldn't be in Velaris… that was a fool's hope, this must be game of Amarantha's…_

 _Feyre stood, approaching him slowly. Azriel looked up from his piano, Cassian and Mor ceasing their fighting nearby-_

" _Are you okay, love?" Feyre reached to touch his face, her tattooed hand revealing a feline eye in the middle of her palm-_

Rhysand sat up, his wings spread behind him, the bedsheets wrapped around his legs. It was dark, so dark in his room. He stared forward in panic, holding his hand in front of his face but, no, he couldn't see it-

 _Breathe_. Rhysand. _Breathe._

He did, he listened to the small part of his mind. _The darkness is yours Rhysand. The darkness is your own._ The voice in his head was his fathers, deep. Soothing.

He had said those words too many times for Rhysand to remember. As he had grown, his power had grown… the power was too much at first. It overpowered him, smothered him. He would be trapped in the darkness for hours at a time, unable to see, to hear anything but his own misery.

But then his father had taken the darkness, had absorbed it. Had shown him to control it… how there were different types of night, of darkness. Not just the darkness of dreams.

 _The darkness is your own. Breathe, and will it away. All you must do is wish it gone… and it will be._

So he breathed, just like he had done all those years ago.

The worst part of this was that this wasn't even a bad dream- it was good. He didn't understand it, why Feyre was there, why she was no longer human in his imagination… but he couldn't deny that she fit in. She looked like one of them, lounging away in that arm chair in the House of Wind.

Those tattoos… they were Illyrian warrior tattoos, ones earned after hours in battle. After the Blood Rite...

His imagination was running away from him. There were too many impossibilities in that dream.

As his breathing slowed, he flapped his wings once before willing them back to the in-between. He lay back in his bed and rubbed a slow hand over his face.

 _What a mess._

Their fate, their very freedom… depends on a human girl. A human girl that Rhysand had strange, unexplainable attraction to.

A human girl that Rhysand had tried to save, to protect form Amarantha for no reason but his own desires. Rhysand had tried and failed to protect her.

He thought of the way Azriel had looked at her, asking her what song she wanted… he looked at her like she belonged there, like she was an old friend. And they had _all_ looked so real. Rhysand hadn't seen his friends in near a half-century, only passing notes between the twin wraiths and his circle but- they seemed to _real_. He hadn't even been able to picture their faces after the first few years but-

Strange. It was too strange to dwell on. _It was just a dream, Rhys. Just a dream._

Rhysand turned his head, wondered what time it was. His fire had burned low. He was still tired but Amarantha had kept him late that night, taking a particularly long time to torture Tamlin. She wanted to know about the girl, about what she feared, what she did, who she was… All dangerous information.

As usual, Amarantha didn't like to get information the easy way. Rhysand could have extracted the information from Tamlin's mind, filtering what he wanted to. Learned about the girl named Feyre. Instead, she settled on pouncing on Tamlin, making Tamlin watch, taunting him.

Tamlin, impressively, had not wavered a second. Perhaps he did care about the girl, in the sick way a male who tried to use an innocent teenage human to free his people could… not that Rhys had much room to judge him.

He was hopeful she would save his people too.

Amarantha was unhappy, the only information she had to go on with the human girl was that she loved Tamlin, was a huntress who killed one of the Spring Court's sentries and apparently, wasn't good at riddles.

Rhysand had managed to keep any more information about the girl from her thus far.

Rhysand huffed as he sat up, decided to bathe and be on with his day. If his calculations were correct today would be the day of the first task… an event he would not miss for the world.

And he had something to take care of before things went too far.

* * *

As Rhysand spelled away the stubble on his chin, chewing on a few mint leaves in front of his sink a shadow creeped out from behind his mirror.

It crawled along the stone wall, creeping downward until all at once it rose from the floor to become a female made of little more than dust and darkness.

Rhysand smiled at her, meeting his wraith's eyes as the twin appeared smoothly on the other side of his sink. He waved a hand, spelling the bathroom to quiet their speech.

Still he whispered. "I wonder how long exactly you have been hiding, wraiths. I hope you didn't get a free show."

Nuala smiled at him wirily, Cerridwen glancing quickly down at her feet.

"How can we be of service to you, High Lord?" Nuala's voice was all shadows.

"I need you to pass on a message to my Circle." He reached into his tunic, removing a carefully folded piece of parchment from a hidden pocket.

Cerridwen took the paper from his hand, swiftly opening it. They would never carry paper, too easily lost or stolen. Their minds however were not so easily lost.

"I need this sent immediately. And I want confirmation that it was received."

Nuala glanced up at him inquiringly. Cerridwen handed the paper to her to read.

As Nuala held the paper up, he could see his own writing in the mirror.

 _Hello my friends,_

 _I fear that I may be doing something terribly stupid, but I must take a chance. There is an opportunity that might ensure our freedom in the form of Tamlin's own. I am sure you have heard rumors even in your isolation and know that there is some truth to them._

 _After some thought, I have decided that I will fight. I will manipulate, kill, maim anyone that stands in the way of this opportunity._

 _I have stood to the wayside for too long._

 _I am writing to you because I need to know in the case of my demise that our emergency preparations will go as planned._

 _This changes nothing._

 _Friends:_

 _Cassian, there is nothing you can do to help me so don't. Make sure they're ready. They need you._

 _Azriel, I am sure that there is something more sinister behind this deposition. You need to know what._

 _Amren, you remain second even if the line of succession changes. When I fall… the wards will fall. There are people here who know about us, who know our secrets. You must maintain the wards, remain in the city. You promised me this once, and let it be known that I expect this promise to stand._

 _Mor, cousin, if I fall my Court will fall to you. As my closest living relative, there is no one else who should take my crown. If so, know that there has been nothing like you since the Cauldron created the world. Do not let them take your crown. If anyone deserves to hold the title of High Lady, it would be you. You were the dreamer born into the court of nightmares. You can rule both, you already do._

 _While I do not look forward to the moment of my death, I anticipate it should things go south. If this year is anything like the past fifty, things can and will go badly._

 _Remember. Every great dream begins with a dreamer. You have the strength, the patience and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world._

 _The world was made and will be shaped by the dreamers._

 _Sincerely,_

 _The Most Handsome High Lord,_

 _Rhys_

When Rhysand glanced away from his letter as Nuala finished reading it, he blinked away the liquid heat behind his eyes. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror, paler and thinner than he had been in all his years. His tattoos were stark against his neck and arms, his eyes the deepest violet of the night.

He willed his crown of stars into existence, knowing perhaps it would be one of the last times he wore his crown.

The crown appeared, shimmering and glowing like the brightest star in the sky. Rhysand raked his eyes over his own face, his chin sharp like his fathers, his nose and eyes very much his mothers. His high cheekbones had been his fathers, as was the hair and the color of his eyes. He unfurled his wings, stretching them out as far as he could in the tiny bathroom.

He felt a warm hand in both of his hands, and surprised, he looked down.

Nuala and Cerridwen were on their knees, a single hand reaching up above them as they clutched his hand. They bowed their heads and together whispered, "High Lord."

When they looked back up their eyes were shimmering, tears threatening to overflow.

"Stand." Rhysand said suddenly, gruffly. His wings were shoved back to the in between, as was his crown. Only the corona of darkness that tugged at his edges remained.

"Do not pity me, wraiths. Pity those who have never known love as I have. And above all, pity those who hate those they do not understand." His voice was hoarse.

They stood slowly. Nuala handed the letter back to him.

As he gripped it, it disappeared into a wisp of the night sky.

"Go now. I want your answer by tonight." He didn't look at them as he spoke, instead staring down at his sink.

They turned back to shadow, and with a breeze through his hair, they were gone.

Rhysand gripped the sink and wet his face one more time.

 _Get it together, High Lord._

After a deep breath, he looked up at his reflection. His eyes were bored, his lips together in a smirk. He crossed his arms.

 _Better_.

* * *

Rhysand was finishing breakfast in his room, a plate of cold meats and fruit, when he felt the familiar tug as Amarantha summoned him. It didn't come from his mind, but rather, somewhere lower. In between his stomach and chest. His power guttered in response as she tugged on his power as well. He huffed out his nose, smoothing his hands over his silver and black tunic. Today was going to be interesting… This girl, Feyre, would be facing her first trail. And he would do everything in his power to make sure she would pass.

However, Amarantha had done her best to keep the details of the first task quiet. He, nor anyone else knew what to expect. Even the Attor seemed oblivious when Rhysand had scrounged his mind for details.

Rhysand strolled from his room in the direction of the throne room but as he approached the wide archway leading to Amarantha's favorite room, he was surprised to see a snout-nosed grunt turning people away and pointing them down the corridor. Among the crowd he spotted a few of the other High Lord's, Kallias and Tarquin to name a few, wandering down the corridor. Their faces were carefully blank but Rhysand could smell the sour scent of fear mixing with the scents of the hall.

Rhysand put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, glad that he had thought to wear one, as the air grew colder and colder the deeper under the mountain they went. The High Fae were excited, murmuring to each other as though they were heading to a carnival. There was laughter, shouting from person to person down the hall.

Deeper and deeper they walked, the ground turned from stone to mud beneath his feet, slippery and cold. His black boots were speckled with mud to his displeasure, but he found some amusement as some fool of a female had thought to wear heels to the trial. Her two companions were attempting to pull her stumps from the muc as he walked by. He didn't bother to hide his snickering.

When Rhysand thought that if they went any deeper into the mountain that they might all walk into a wall of lava, they finally reached a massive cavern, no, _arena_. There were giant wooden stands to both sides of the arena in which faeries were piling on, establishing their seats before the show. On the far end of the arena a wooden platform was erected, complete with two makeshift thrones in which Amarantha and Tamlin already sat. And below that platform stood Kallias and Tarquin, both turned towards the Red Queen. Paying their respects. The High Lord's stood in the muddied floor, no platform erected for them to stand on although the crowd stood if not in the stands then on wooden planks and leaning against the railing that surrounded a deep, muddy trench.

A tinge of annoyance zapped through him. Really, she had entire stands erected for her Court to watch the trial unfold, but the High Lord's were to stand in the mud? Rhysand supposed that if anything perfectly showed her feelings about them it was that action alone.

He smiled as he entered the room, letting them think that he enjoyed this display. Even if he was to stand in the mud like an Illyrian child. The crowd gave him a wide birth as he weaved through them, making his way towards the throne. _Whore._ The undertone was nothing new to him, the sting no longer reaching any part of him that mattered. He glanced down into the pit, wondering what exactly would be Feyre's challenge. It was a maze of mud and filth, the stench wafting even through the iron-tinged magic that protected the crowd from the worst of it.

As he passed the middle of the first stand, a small platform was raised. A dark-haired, High Fae male was standing on the platform above the crowd. In his hand he clutched a coin purse that jingled over the noise.

"Make your bets here! Will the human slut fall to the Middengard Wyrm? Will she last five minutes, a single minute, or just a few seconds? Best winnings if she lasts 10 minutes! Worst if she lasts one!"

 _Middengard Wyrm?_ Rhysand had heard only whispers of the beast.

A female giggled nearby, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Her hair a burning auburn. Autumn Court.

"Human slut?" She said quietly to her companion, her lips spread in a smirk.

Something inside Rhysand was burning, and before he knew what he was doing he had stopped in front of that platform.

"Care to make a bet, High Lord?" The dark-haired male asked him, his voice lifting with strange annunciation. One of Amarantha's Hybern cronies then.

A few faeries stopped walking behind him to watch. Rhysand gave the male a crooked smile, pulling his coin purse out from a pocket inside of his tunic.

"Indeed. Tell me, how many have bet that she will win?"

The faeries who had remained walking away now stopped to look at him. He kept his lips curved in a careful smile.

"Err…" The faerie glanced down at his paper once, his face confused, "It doesn't look like anybody has bet any money on that. One person bet she would last an hour. Why?"

"No reason." Rhysand threw his entire coin purse at the male. He caught it, looking at Rhysand with interest. "Put the entire amount on her winning."

Some muttering came from behind him. _What, is he stupid? What does he think he's playing at?_

 _Whore. Whore. Whore, whore, whore…_

"Err… I don't think…" The dark hair male stuttered, clutching Rhysand's coin purse.

"Did I stutter?" Rhysand brushed a claw over his weak mind, blinking innocently at him.

He shivered. "No. Okay, sir… Fifteen hundred gold coins on… on that the human beats the worm."

Rhysand smiled, watching as the male wrote his name down on the parchment. He only strolled away when every single coin had been carefully counted and accounted for on the paper.

He smiled innocently at the crowd that had gathered before he strolled towards Amarantha's throne. It seemed that the rest of the High Lord's had arrived in his absence, and the arena was bursting at the brim with faeries hungry for blood.

He bowed deeply as he approached Amarantha's throne. She only nodded briefly at him, turning her attention to the entrance to the cavern. Tamlin glanced briefly at him, no nod coming from him.

 _Hello to you too._

Rhysand strolled to the edge of the bank that separated him from the maze below. Helion was the last High Lord to arrive before him, and he nodded once at Rhysand before turning his gaze down on the maze below. Perhaps it was just him, but it seemed that each of their faces were paler tonight than usual. The mixture of fear with the excitement in the room confirmed his suspicion.

The roar of the crowd grew louder before he saw her. She was being hauled forward by two red-skinned prison grunts of Amarantha's. Her feet attempted to walk, but most of her weight was being pulled forward by the lesser fae. The crowd laughed and shouted at her, a group of it chanting, "Human slut! Human slut!" She paid no attention to the insults, but her pale face and racing heart gave away her nerves. Her blue-grey eyes flickered around her, her eyes drawn to the maze of trenches and tunnels below them all.

The faeries threw her to the ground behind the High Lords, directly in front of Amarantha's platform. The bruises on her face had faded, but the green-tinged dark circles lingered. Dried blood flaked through her hair, her golden-strands stained red as she had obviously attempted to wash it from her crown. Her cloths were dirty, not that it mattered as when she rose to her feet in front of the queen. Her pant legs were soaked with cold mud. Despite the mud, the filth, all that Rhysand saw on her face was defiance. Even if her mind was screaming in terror.

Amarantha rose a pale hand. The crowd instantly quieted.

It became deathly quiet in the cavern. Feyre's heart was beating the loudest, a strange thud only coming from Tamlin's stone heart. Water dripped from the ceiling above them. Mud sloshed as faeries shifted their weight.

"Well, Feyre." She brushed her hand possessively over Tamlin's knee. "Your first task is here. Let us see how deep the human affection of yours runs."

A few giggles burned through the crowd. Feyre exposed her teeth to the Queen, staring directly at the witch.

Even with the mud, the blood, the defiance… Rhysand could see it. That woman he saw in his dreams. But her ears, peaking in front of the mess of hair tucked behind her ear were perfectly round. Human.

"I took the liberty of learning a few things about you," Amarantha murmured. "It was only fair, you know."

Feyre's heart continued at an impossible pace.

"I think you'll like this task," she waved a hand, and the Attor parted the crowd. Clearing her way to the lip of the deep trench. "Go ahead. Look."

Each step was slow, careful. The mud was affecting her balance with no immortal grace for her to rely on. Feyre approached the lip of the maze, her eyes trying to make sense of the maze below. When she was only a couple inches from the edge of the trench, the Attor shoved her forward only to catch her just as swiftly as he had shoved her. His wings unfurled, and as they pushed up into the air, Feyre let out a small scream.

The crowd was laughing, breathing in her scream like the scent of incense. Her scream had shot through Rhysand like an arrow.

The Attor lowered her into the trench, each beat of his wings spreading the stench of the maze throughout the arena. Amarantha winkled her nose. Rhysand turned away from her, his eyes instead glued to Feyre.

The Attor dropped her a foot or so from the floor, her feet landing deep into mud. Her feet went out from under her and her arms flailed as she attempted to remain upright. When she caught her balance, her hand came up to cover her nose. She was trying not to gag at the scent.

Feyre looked back up Amarantha, who had floated her platform above the High Lords so that she had a better view of the maze itself.

"Rhysand tells me you're a huntress," Amarantha started. The panic that filled Feyre at the thought of Rhysand invading her thoughts… the guilt threatened to swallow him whole. He struggled to keep the smile on his face. "Hunt this." Amarantha flicked her fingers at her.

Feyre turned her eyes to Tamlin next, who stared at her blankly. She searched his face for a long moment.

Amarantha shifted in annoyance. "Release it," she snapped.

A grate, one that was apparently directly below them as Rhysand couldn't see it, began to groan. A slithering, swift noise filled the chamber.

Feyre's face turned from defiance to terror, and she trembled as she awaited her fate. The crowd quieted, listening to the slithering, guttural vibrations that approached from deep below them.

Amarantha clicked her tongue once above them all. Feyre turned her gaze back to her.

She rose her eyebrows. "Run." Amarantha whispered, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Feyre turned to her right, and her eyes widened in terror. And she ran with all the gusto her human body could muster.

With a final hiss, the giant worm was out of the grate and in the maze. Its body was pinkish brown, slimy, covered in muck. What must be its head was made up of a thousand sets of razor-sharp teeth, a thousand rings that snarled and smelled so strong of filth and rot that Rhysand stopped breathing through his nose.

Feyre sprinted down the length of the trench, her feet slipping this way and that as she ran. One fall and she would be gone, eaten by that monster. He watched with horror as the crowd roared with pleasure, cheering and scaring the wyrm into a frenzy.

Feyre ran left, left, and then left again, swirling herself through the maze. Her mind was racing, trying to plan, trying to think while her lungs and heart begged for more oxygen. She slammed into a wall, drawing more laughs from the crowd but wiped the mud from her eyes and kept running.

She hit a straight stretch in which a tiny opening split between trenches, nearly missing the sliver of open air as she pumped her legs with all her might. She slowed her running, allowing the wyrm to snip at her toes and slammed her weight into the tiny opening.

She slammed into it but was thrown back, the opening not big enough for her to squeeze through. She clawed at the walls, her panic becoming Rhysand's own.

 _Come on. You can do it. Keep trying. Claw._

The wyrm approached ever fast, his teeth clicking together, hissing, vibrating the very cavern.

Feyre pulled, her air coming in quick puffs and _finally_ she fell through the crack. The wyrm sped past the wall, roaring in frustration.

Feyre let out a cry of relief as she hit the ground on the other side, but without another thought was to her feet and flying deeper into the maze. The crowd was grumbling around him.

Helion had let out a breath when she hit the floor. Rhysand did nothing but relax his crossed arms. The wyrm had sped past the wall, smelling her, probably hearing her but… it should have seen her struggle there. It should have shattered directly through the wall. But it hadn't.

Feyre was thinking the same thing, the clever woman. She ran, panting and thinking it through. She glanced up the crowd, away from where the High Lords stood watching their faces. She could see where the wyrm was based on where they were looking.

 _It hadn't seen her._ It was blind.

They came to the realization at the same time, Rhysand so surprised he blinked as he saw her fall into… nothing. _Where did she go?_

The crowd gasped around him, yelling out in confusion. But then- yes, there. There was a pit in the middle of this maze. A lair. The lair of wyrm. Feyre had just _fallen into the lair of the wyrm._

A gasp came from the pit, and a few faeries leaned over the rail closest to the lair.

Without hesitation, Rhysand infiltrated their minds, using their eyesight to be his own. Feyre was whirling, standing the middle of the opening, her eyes squinting as she tried to see in the dark light. She took a step, her leg sunk deep into the mud. She held back a scream as she fell on her bottom, scrambling away from something… pointy in the mud. Sharp and white.

She scrambled back, her hand falling on another stick, just visible from this faerie's vantage point. She looked around frantically, her eyes flickering from bone to bone, panic shimmering sharply in her mind. She scrambled back until she was no longer visible from any vantage point.

Rhysand's heart was in his throat.

"Feyre," Amarantha spoke, her voice magically amplified. "You're ruining everyone's fun!" Her voice was musical. "Come out!"

Rhysand could not see her, but he could see the smartass reply in her mind. He tore his eyes from the entrance to the lair, finding the wyrm on the other side of the labyrinth. It was mindlessly hissing, roaring as it searched desperately for its food.

A green-faced lesser fae shouted, pointing in the lair's direction. Rhysand entered his mind next. _Thank you for your eyes, sir._ He thought to himself.

She had stumbled back into the open air of the pit and was trying to scale the wall with her bare hands. Every time she made an inch of progress, she slid back down to the floor with hands full of mud.

She stared at the wall defiantly. He wondered if she thought if she glared at it enough, a ladder would appear. She tried to climb it again, digging into the wall with all her might… and slid back down to the floor.

 _No, think. Use your mind._

She tried again. And again. The faeries around her were laughing, calling down to her.

" _A mouse in a trap,"_ one crowed at her. He heard it clearly in her mind. _"Need a stepping stool?"_

She froze. Then she whirled around, staring at the pile of bones behind her. She leaned back, her hand pressing into the wall behind her.

Then, Feyre ripped herself from that wall, a spark glimmering in those starlight eyes. She stomped over to two of the largest bones she could find and using all her weight jammed them into the wall. Then she stabbed another into the wall. And another. Creating… steps.

Something bloomed inside Rhysand as he watched her create this ladder, and soared when she began climbing it, a small bone strapped across her back. She could get out, she was almost out… and good thing too, the wyrm had smelled her. And was speeding off from the other end of the maze towards his lair.

But then she paused. And then she dropped off her bone ladder, back into the mud. _What are you doing?_ _Get out!_ He was again gripping the jacket over his biceps, his arms crossed tight across his body. Faeries whispered around them, " _What's it doing?"_

She drew the bone that was behind her back, and with force snapped it into two across her knee. She grinned as she beheld the two sharp-ended spikes in either hand.

She then trudged to the middle of the pit opening, jabbing the two bones into the ground, the sharp ends up. Then, she trudged back over the pile of bones, breaking bone after bone over her knee and with a kick of her foot. She stuck them into the floor directly below the pit opening until the area was covered with these sharp, bony spears.

Where was the wyrm? Rhysand tore his eyes away from her for a moment, to see that the wyrm had been distracted by a group of faeries that had found some form of meat to tease it with. It was pacing back and forth across the labyrinth, ignoring Feyre completely.

She examined her boneyard for only a moment before turning towards the bone ladder.

 _Brilliant._ She had built a trap for the wyrm, in its own lair, using nothing but mud and the bones of its food.

As she ran to the bone ladder, hauling her body over the mouth of the pit, Rhysand slid back into his own eyes. She had three bones on her belt, and before she was even standing straight, she was rushing over to the nearby trench wall. She grabbed the filth from the wall, smearing it all over her face, her hair, her neck, her cloths. When she was finally done, she was covered head to toe in mud. The only identifiable part of her remained those starlight eyes. Then, she drew a sharp bone from her belt.

Her white teeth shown as she sealed herself for the final battle.

"What's it doing?" A faerie grumbled nearby.

Rhysand couldn't help his reply. The smile on his lips was involuntary. She had figured out a plan to survive this, to kill the wyrm, without even his help. "She's building a trap."

"But the Middengard-", the faerie whined.

"Relies on it's scent to see." Feyre glanced up at the sound of his voice, meeting his eyes from across the arena. His heart shuttered under the force of her gaze. "And Feyre just became invisible."

The faerie was silent. Feyre glowered at Rhys, rising the free hand to flip him off with a muddy finger.

Rhys's chest shuttered with a suppressed chuckle. She could have been Cassian's sister in this moment, covered complete in filth, outnumbered and yet she had the fight in her to flip him off over his narration.

She had made him laugh, a real chuckle. Not forced, not mocking. But a genuine, light laugh.

He found it hard to breath as she ran straight towards the wyrm. On her way, she embedded a bone into a seemingly random corner wall of the maze. Then another wall. The wyrm was not far from the lair, roaring frantically as the crowd had gathered near that part of the arena. As she approached, she slowed her running. They were feeding the disgusting creature, and Feyre winced at least once with the terrible crunching of its teeth.

She eased around a bend, craning her neck as she watched the wyrm thrash. She breathed deeply. Then, she moved directly into the path of the wyrm, raising a single hand above her head.

With horror, Rhysand realized her intentions too late. She slit her hand open using the sharp end of the bone, blood pouring down bright red, mixing with the filth on her arm.

By the time she looked up from her hand, the wyrm was gone. The crowd went silent as it watched her, but the wyrm was coming at her from her left, and she couldn't see it-

The faeries who had been feeding the wyrm grinned at her and she turned to see where the wyrm had gone-

Rhysand knew he was in deep shit and he could not help her in this way, but he could use his _mind-_

Before he could think about it, he infiltrated Lucien's mind, taking control of his voice and yelled, "TO YOUR LEFT!"

Feyre startled and bolted down the trench just as the wall that she was standing against exploded into mud, the wyrm just inches behind her.

She sprinted again, leading the wyrm on his way to the lair, using the bones she had embedded into the corner wall to swing around the corner without breaking her speed. Then, again, she made a sharp turn, her legs and arms pumping as she was blur of brown and red spiraling towards the lair-

One final turn and the faeries began crying out, some confused, some victorious, some enraged as they watched the wyrm spiraling towards its doom. She ran- and then she leaped into open space- and Rhysand couldn't see her-

Feyre screamed from somewhere in the pit, a howl of pain- Rhysand infiltrated a faeries eyes so he could see again-

But then the wyrm was plummeting into the lair behind her, all he could see was its huge mass flying into the opening.

 _Crunch_. A wet, sickening crunch filled the arena.

The crowd fell silent.

The wyrm… it was laying on the floor on the lair, grey blood oozing out from its body. It gave a single tremble before it fell still.

Feyre was somewhere in the dark, panting, alive.

The crowd gasped as the wyrm took its last breaths… and then cheers filled the air. Genuine, clear cheering. For the human girl.

Cheers continued as Feyre climbed her bone ladder. She was still covered in filth, and her left arm had something sticking out of it. Bone, it looked like, she had stabbed herself by accident. Blood dripped down her arm to her fingers as she wandered through the labyrinth. Towards Amarantha's platform, towards where Rhysand and the other High Lords stood.

The look in her eyes was nothing but triumph and bottomless rage.

 _She won. She survived the first task._ Rhysand had to hide his grin, but his lips were still in a coy smile.

She stumbled towards the edge of the trench until she was standing just below Amarantha's platform. Feyre gripped a long, sharp bone in her right arm, her left hanging uselessly by her side. The look Feyre gave Amarantha, who stared at her with a pale face and thin lips, was nothing but pure _feral_ rage.

She shook with rage, her brows furrowed, and teeth exposed a very fae snarl.

"Well," Amarantha smirked, her face still pale. "I suppose anyone could have done that."

Rage coursed through Rhysand, but it was shattered as he saw Feyre take a few running steps in Amarantha's direction, throwing that long bone with all her might.

It landed in the mud at Amarantha's feet, over Rhysand's head. Mud splattered onto Amarantha's gown, and a small speck on her nose.

Every cell in Rhysand's body trembled with pleasure.

He could almost hear Cassian mutter in his ear, " _If you don't marry her, you stupid prick, I will."_ He couldn't hide the smile on his face this time, so he turned his face away from Amarantha instead.

Faeries were gasping around them. A few of the High Lords had managed to keep their faces poised, but Rhysand and Helion were both trying to hide their smiles.

Amarantha stared at the bone for a moment, shock glimmering behind the fortress that was her mind. She touched the mud on her gown, looking at it on her hand.

"Naughty." She said quietly.

Feyre thoughts were so loud: _I will rip her throat out. I will skin her alive._

Rhysand didn't think he'd ever been so attracted to anyone in his entire life, especially someone injured and covered in filth.

Amarantha looked at her a moment, then picked up a piece of parchment. Betting records. "I suppose you'll be happy to learn most of my court lost a good deal of money tonight. Let's see," she toyed with her necklace. Tamlin was struggled to maintain his composure next to her, Feyre looking openly at his face.

Jealousy, deep and undeniable burned in Rhysand's chest.

"Yes, I'd say almost my entire court bet on you dying within the first minute; some said you'd last five, and" -she turned over the paper- "and just one person said you would win."

Oh boy. He was in trouble, wasn't he? Knowing that punishment was coming brought not even an ounce of regret as he watched the defiant look on Feyre's face.

The Attor picked Feyre up this time, dropping her at the foot of the platform. Feyre winced, clutching her impaled arm.

Amarantha frowned down at her list, waving a lazy hand. She was preoccupied with Rhysand. "Take her away. I tire of her mundane face."

Feyre was clutched by the red-skinned guards again, tugging her out of the arena. She whimpered as they gripped the injured arm. That was not good, her tendons were visible through the wound, blood trickling down her wrist. No sign of slowing down. Not to mention the risk for infection, the filth covering every inch of her skin and the bone that was still imbedded in her arm.

This was something that would have to dealt with, this injury in a human… it was unlikely she would survive more than a few days unless someone intervened. The girl, the one who was _one of them_ , a dreamer. A fighter. She would need help.

Rhysand frowned, staring after her. "Rhysand, come here." He instantly turned, looking over at Amarantha. He was thankful that he had a frown on his face when he looked at his queen, the rage seeping from her in waves. She was clutching her throne until the whites of her knuckles shown.

 _Great._

* * *

Oh man, this is a great chapter. One of the best in the series I think. (I mean Sarah's chapter, not my own!)

Review!


	12. Of Whips and Flame

Hello everyone.

Long time no see. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this story... quite the opposite actually.

Thank you all for your kind reviews, I read each and every one of them. They mean a lot to me.

Please, enjoy this new chapter and review!

* * *

Rhysand frowned, staring after Feyre.

"Rhysand, come here." Amarantha's high voice was cold.

He instantly turned, looking over at Amarantha. He was thankful that he had a frown on his face when he looked at his queen, the rage seeping from her in waves. She was clutching her throne until the whites of her knuckles shown.

 _Great._

The crowd that moments ago had been working their way out of the stands stopped. Eyes turned from the human girl's back to look over the small pool of blood she left in her wake. Then those same eyes bore into Rhysand.

Rhysand was smart enough to school his expression into a look of vague disinterest. Amarantha had her lips pressed into a scowl, her dark eyes glimmering. The mud on her dress had turned the white material into a murky canvas.

He strolled forward, his hands slipping into his pockets. He could feel Helion's sunbeam eyes burning into the space between his shoulders.

"You too, Lucien." She hissed suddenly, her eyes flicking into the crowd. Lucien was creeping his way towards the door, but with the cold snap of her voice he had froze in place.

Rhysand was now standing in the mud in front of the platform, the rest of the High Lord's behind him. The Attor had creeped back into his place slightly behind the throne. Tamlin's face was blank, but Rhysand could feel the shimmering of elation and fear mixing together in his mind.

The crowd started slowly moving back into place, voices hushed. The flame of excitement that had been ignited the moment Feyre had thrown her bone spear at the great white bitch was now extinguished. All it took was the change in Amarantha's voice, the tug of her power over them all.

 _Hope_. That's what that feeling had been. It had been so fleeting before, and so long since he had felt it in the room around him.

It was a swift and strange realization that hit him: it had been more than just him rooting for that little human woman. The _huntress._ There had been others rooting for her as well.

 _Interesting._

Amarantha kept her eyes trained on Lucien, even as Lucien was scooped by the winged ilk of the Attor. Rhysand heard a hiss of rage behind him, felt the pressure of those mockery of Illyrian wing's pushing through the air.

He did not turn his head away from the Queen when he heard the splattering of mud as Lucien was dropped and then caught his balance nearby.

"Your Majesty," Lucien spoke gracefully, bowing deeply at the waist. Rhysand bowed in unison with him. He could smell the sour scent of fear in the air. Rhysand was pleased to note however, that his boots remained mostly free of specks of mud. Lucien was covered in mud from his knees to his toes.

As they straightened, Rhysand smiled sensually, letting some of his night glimmer around his form.

"How can I assist my Queen?" He purred.

Amarantha appraised them both with dark eyes. She clicked her fingers over the arm of her makeshift throne. _Click, click, click._

A moment passed. The crowd was silent. The slopping of the mud had even silenced.

 _Click, click, click._ Her nails were a gleaming red today. His eyes lingered on her fingers. A flash of the picture of Feyre's blood all over her hands made his breath catch.

She picked up the leger of bets from her lap. A smear of mud was now on the back.

"Only one person bet against the Middengard Wyrm. That one person won-," her eyes flicked down the examine the paper, "twenty-five thousand gold marks."

"An impressive sum." His voice remained deep despite the itching of his nerves.

"Indeed. Tell me pet, why you were the only one who bet on the human slut?" Amarantha's hair gleamed in the faelight, her head tilting back.

Whispers ignited in the stands. _Him? The whore bet that she would win. What is he doing?_

"My father always taught me that if you are going to gamble your purse, make sure it is worth the risk if you should win. So, the answer to your question is simple, My Queen. Betting on the human was the most profitable option." Rhysand kept his voice steady, his face impassive. Bored.

"I see." She glanced again down at the paper. The fortress of her mind was burning. The heat of her rage whipped against him.

He was silent. Unsure what else to say for once.

She flicked a finger at the Attor.

Clawed hands seized him under each shoulder, forcing him to his knees in the mud. Rhysand gritted his teeth as mud splashed up his pants into his tunic. It was unbearably cold and the stench-

Lucien stepped away from him, pushed out of the way as two of Amarantha's cronies gripped Rhys. His power flickered, his wards just staying up as the remnants of his power struggled against the suck of her power.

She rose to her feet, her face still white with rage. She bared her teeth and looked over his head to the crowd.

"Let it be known that gambling without permission of the crown shall not be tolerated. In my homeland, gambling is punishable by death. It is an affront to the Cauldron, and income that is untaxable."

Rhysand swallowed, wondering at his luck. That beautiful gift from the Cauldron had beat all odds, threatened his Queen and yet he was going to die over a _bet._ His head swam from the continued pull over his power. He just had to keep the wards up until she killed him, Amren would feel the moment he died, his whole court would feel the effects and then the pale eyed demon could protect them…

Amarantha gestured him forward and he was lifted into the air, the mud sucking at his legs.

His knees slipped in the mud beneath him as they dropped him at her feet.

She looked down at him the way a cat looked at a mouse before they ate them.

He knew when to bow, when to beg and he pushed his ego deep down, so deep that it barely stung as he placed his forehead to the floor so near where her muddy dress brushed against the floor.

"Please, Your Majesty…" he whispered. Starlight blue eyes were burning beneath his closed lids, the fae-like snarl on her face as she had thrown that spear… The spear that his calve was brushing against.

A moment of silence passed. The shame he felt was a flush across his chest.

"Rise up, High Lord. Look me in the eye."

He sat up on his knees, looking up at the Red Witch. The sharp spike of hatred that burned in his chest overpowered the shame quickly.

Amarantha looked at him with a small smile on her lips. He knew that gleam in her eye meant she had a plan for him.

"Oh, sweet Rhysand. You have been exceptionally useful." Her hand brushed across his cheek and it took every inch of his self-control not to flinch back. "It would be a shame to lose you now." She sighed, closing her eyes like it pained her.

Tamlin was looking at him with thinly veiled disgust.

"I believe your fate will have to wait however, my dear. There is someone else who needs to be dealt with most immediately. Turn around, I wouldn't want you to miss it." Her power whipped him around sharply, then pinned him in place. His ankles were shackled to the floor with white, glistening chains of her power.

Lucien was still standing below the platform where she had dropped him.

"Hmm… Lucien. I thought I would experience better behavior from you after I graciously returned your power in an act of good faith. What ever will I do with you?" She was smiling cruelly, the rage still visible on her face. It made her grin look more like a grimace.

Lucien was pale, his hands shaking at his sides. He shifted his auburn and metal eye to Rhysand once, and even with Rhysand's struggling powers he suddenly knew that Lucien _knew._

Lucien knew that he had been forced to speak, and he knew exactly who had that power to make him speak against his will.

 _TO YOUR LEFT!_ The words that had been spoken so quickly and loudly from his mouth would never have escaped if Rhysand had not pushed against the soft wall in his mind. Had not forced him to speak.

Lucien shifted his eyes back to the witch. He indecision was clear to Rhysand as he sat in the antechamber of his mind, stretching his power across the room with no small amount of effort.

In this act… Rhysand would not interfere. Lucien could ensure his death if he wanted. As he probably desired after all the sharp words, the murder, the control Rhys had inflicted over his court and others.

 _Why? Why did he make me save her? Was it over money?_

"Well? Is there anything you have to say for yourself?" Amarantha hissed.

Lucien swallowed a lump in his throat. _Come now, Lucien… You have always been clever._ Rhysand said a silent prayer to the Cauldron. _You know it was more for than just the money._

A moment drippled by.

"Please, My Queen. Feyre… was my friend while I lived in the Spring Court. I acted out of instinct only. I beg your pardon." Lucien gasped out finally, slipping to his knees. His hands braced in a beg in front of him.

A few gasped in the crowd. Eris was smiling plainly behind him, but the Lady of the Autumn Court… She was shaking even as she had her hands clutched together against her dress.

The entire room knew that Amarantha killed over much, much less.

"Friendship." Amarantha said slowly, sounding out each syllable. "You consider yourself friends with this human? A huntress, who killed one of our kind without a second thought? Who killed your _friend_ out of hatred?" The words were growled. A few other snarls echoed around the cavern from Amarantha's Court.

"Please… forgive me…" Lucien gasp out as he was lifted into the air, Amarantha's white power clutching at his throat.

The crowd shifted uncomfortably as Lucien kicked at the air, struggling against her grip. His face quickly was turning a reddish-blue.

"Please. Forgive him. He does not mean what he says." Tamlin ground out suddenly from Rhysand's left. His voice was hoarse from disuse, but when Rhysand turned his head to look at him the tendons in his neck and arms were fighting underneath his skin.

Amarantha turned to him, a broad grin across her face now. Tamlin had broken his vow of silence.

"Oh, sweet Tamlin. How I have longed to hear your voice. It has been so unbearably boring since you fell into your stupor."

Emerald eyes bore into dark ones for a moment. "Let him go." He growled.

She smiled sweetly, spinning Lucien in a circle as he clawed helpless at the power that choked the life from him.

"Hmm…" She cocked her head, "I don't think I will. He is a traitor, after all."

Tamlin gripped the throne, his claws popping out from beneath his skin. There was panic in his eyes. "Please, I beg you."

Lucien kicked at the air. "That doesn't look like begging to me." Amarantha cooed, delighted.

Tamlin stood carefully, approaching Amarantha's feet. Then, he fell to his knees next to Rhysand. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pressed his head to the floor, holding the fabric of her gown in his clawed hands.

"Let him go. Please, spare him." The words came out in a growl.

Amarantha laughed, the sound odd like the tinkling of charms in the wind.

Lucien fell to the ground, the mud smacking loudly as he landed hard. Mud was streaked through his hair and across his face. He struggled for breath, rubbing his neck. "Oh, thank you, My Queen. Thank you." He gasps out, his voice almost inaudible. He looked like he would kiss the ground if it hadn't been covered with mud.

Amarantha chucked again, holding out the hand with Jurian's ring to the Spring High Lord. Jurian's eye was glued to Tamlin. "Sweet Tamlin, don't you think you should thank your Queen properly?"

He sat up slightly, looking at her with reproach. Slowly, he reached out a hand, clutching her small, pale one in his paw. With a strange look on his face, he kissed her ring once. Jurian's eye whirled. "Thank you, Never Fading Flower. Thank you, Your Majesty."

Rhysand could have gagged.

"Oh, you are quite welcome, my love. However, our friend Lucien here still betrayed the crown. What should his punishment be if not death…"? She trailed off, a small smirk now gracing her lips.

"Oh! I have the best idea." She clapped her hands together.

"Tamlin… since you so graciously begged me to spare your emissary's life, it is only fitting if you were the one to bestow his punishment."

Tamlin looked up with her in horror, quickly schooling his face into an impassive position. He slowly rose back onto his feet.

Lucien was glancing between the two of them, the relief now gone from his face. His golden eye was whirling around the room. A reminder of Amarantha's previous punishments.

"Let's see…" She held up her fingers like she was counting, fluttering her eyelashes at Tamlin. "I do believe that twenty lashes are fitting."

 _Twenty._

Rhys had been whipped before, by Amarantha herself in fact, during the first war. After five lashes the pain was unbearable. He had never begged, was determined not to make a sound, but after seven lashes he couldn't help the groans that had escaped him. The searing pain was unlike anything he had experienced before… and it had taken an impossibly long amount of time to recover from her strikes.

He may not have begged her for mercy, but he had certainly begged the Cauldron for the sweet escape of death.

And that had only been ten lashes. In which he had to count in between.

It seemed the Amarantha's cruelty has been increasing throughout the years.

Lucien grasp the muddy floor beneath his hands, looking down at them. At anything but Tamlin.

"Twenty?" Tamlin asked, his voice hoarse now for a different reason. "So many. Perhaps… that is too many, My Queen."

Amarantha smiled as he flattered her. "Oh, my dear, twenty is _perhaps_ too few. But, it is with the kindness in my heart that I allow him to live. Would you prefer his death?"

Lucien again was clutched between the tendrils of her white power, clawing at his neck.

"No! No!" Tamlin said quickly. Lucien was released again.

The crowd was shifting uncomfortably. This… was not something that was often experienced during the day. Torture was to be a nightly tradition, and it was rare that those being tortured were faeries of such importance.

Lucien's brothers were smiling menacingly, having joined Eris at the front of the crowd. The Lady of the Autumn Court remained pale. Beron looked on impassive.

A whip had appeared in the hands of the Red Queen, courtesy of the Attor.

It was black, made of leather but infused with flexible pieces of ash that gleamed palely. At the end of the long whip, a star of ash spikes was impressively sharp. Rhysand had dreamed of that weapon for more years than he cared to admit, having remembered every moment of his torture during the war.

Tamlin now stood. The stench of his fear was smothering Rhysand. Lucien was being stripped by Amarantha's cronies who ripped off his emerald tunic with their clawed hands. When they were done, he was facing the crowd. His pale back faced Amarantha, only his muddy leggings and boots remaining in place. The cronies had even pulled his red hair out of the way using a leather band.

The fear was spreading throughout the room now, the crowd silent. Still.

"I want you to count after each lash, Lucien. I wouldn't want us to lose count. If you forget to count… the count will restart."

Rhysand had heard those words before. They were just as terrifying as they were the first time he had heard them.

Tamlin took the whip from her hands, and Amarantha settled back into her throne, crossing her legs and playing with her necklace with satisfaction.

Tamlin gripped it in his hand tightly, trudging off the platform into the mud.

He let go off the end of the whip, letting it fall into the filth behind him. He took an unsteady breath, gripping the whip so hard his hand was bleeding as his own claws pierced his skin.

"Oh, and Tamlin?" Amarantha cooed. Tamlin paused. "Don't hold back. I will know." She smiled.

Lucien closed his eyes, closing his hands into fists in the mud. He was ready.

The whip lashed through the air, a sharp _snap_ tearing through the air like the sound of a bone breaking.

Lucien jumped, arching his back as a thin line of blood began to drip down his back. A hiss escaped through his lips.

"Don't forget to count, Lucien!" Amarantha giggled.

"One." Lucien groaned.

 _Snap._ The whip shook a bit as Tamlin drew it back. Lucien moaned audibly this time, the muscles in his back tremoring visibly.

"Two."

 _Snap._

 _Snap._

 _Snap._

It took twelve lashes to break Lucien down in to screaming.

With that twelfth hiss of the whip through the air, the ash spikes stuck deep into his back. A couple inches of skin pulled off as Tamlin drew the whip back. Lucien let out an involuntary howl as his back became a puzzle of blood and flesh.

 _Snap. Snap. Snap._

It took fifteen lashes for Lucien's mother to cry in earnest, Beron muttering quietly to her as he subtlety shifted his hand.

A glamour of silence covered her whimpers, but Rhysand heard them none the less.

His stomach was turning. But he swallowed his bile back down his throat, trying to shift against Amarantha's restraints.

 _Snap._ Scream.

 _Snap._ Scream.

By the eighteenth lash, Lucien was barely conscious. His whimper was quiet this time, his yells having faded with the pain.

Tamlin was visibly shaking.

 _Snap._

Nothing. Lucien didn't reply.

Amarantha smiled. "Hmm… counting is important, Emissary."

Lucien's chest rose and fell. He was out, curled into a deep part of his mind.

Tamlin paused.

"Remember, Tamlin. If he doesn't count, we restart."

Lucien remained out. The Lady of Autumn Court hid her face.

Rhysand forced what little bit of his power that still lingered into Lucien's body, into his mind.

It took a moment, and Tamlin was winding back to another lash of the whip.

"Nineteen." Lucien's voice was barely audible as Rhysand controlled it.

Tamlin huffed a relieved breath.

 _Snap._

Rhysand forced a groan from Lucien's lips, wincing as the pain rocked through Lucien's body and Rhysand's mind.

"Twenty."

Rhysand threw himself from Lucien's mind. Lucien was laying in the mud, the blood leaking down his back to the muddy floor. He was still out.

Tamlin was panting. He closed his eyes, covering his face with a shaking, clawed hand.

Amarantha looked over her groomed nails, her face pinched in disappointment. "Hmm. I thought we were going to be able to restart with the counting."

Tamlin dropped the whip to the mud, turned back to his throne.

"Oh, not so fast, love." Amarantha sat up, her face shifting into a grin.

Rhysand felt a sinking stone slip through his chest.

Amarantha stood up, turned to Rhysand now. "You may have been exceptionally useful to me, Rhysand, but you have wronged myself and my Kingdom. Gambling is not permitted… but it would be inconvenient to me should you be sentenced to death."

The crowd turned their eyes from Lucien's bloody form to Rhysand.

"I do think that it would be cruel of me to keep you from your winnings however, considering the amount that you bet on that human. Therefore… I think a lash for each thousand marks would be appropriate."

 _How much had he won again?_ Rhysand tried to think back but… wait. Twenty-five thousand.

 _Twenty-five lashes._

Fear, wicked and undeniable pulsed through his body.

Twenty-five lashes. If he endured twenty-five lashes, he could still protect his court. Keep his wards intact. He could stay alive… stay alive long enough to help that human girl kick Amarantha's ass in the trials. Stay alive long enough to find a way to heal her…

Rhysand stared up at the cruel woman, swallowing once. And nodded.

"That is a fair punishment, My Queen. Thank you for your mercy."

She smiled at him bitterly. He doubted she had ever been thanked for punishment before, and it didn't appear that she liked it.

 _Good._

"Tamlin?"Amarantha fluttered her eyelashes at him again. "I enjoy watching the way you move through the motions… a whip in your hand. Could you do me the pleasure of completing Rhysand's punishment for me? I don't want to ruin my manicure."

Tamlin emerald eyes were hard, the hatred for Rhysand clearly shining through. _Seriously? A few hundred years of taunting and Tamlin blamed Rhysand for all of this?_

"It would be my pleasure." Tamlin growled.

 _Lovely._ There was no one to beg for mercy for Rhysand.

Rhysand was pulled through the air by Amarantha's restraints until he was kneeling nearby Lucien. Lucien's breath was coming out in quick huffs, and he was stirring uncomfortably. The look on his mother's face showed how she longed to run to him.

The eyes that looked down on him though… there was strange mix of satisfaction and fear gleaming around him.

Not a friendly face to be seen.

Not that this was anything new.

But Cauldron… it would have been nice.

Rhysand stripped his own tunic off, a small part of him enjoying the hundreds of female eyes and a handful of male eyes that scrapped over his chest and stomach. Even when faced with torture, it was hard to ignore his nature.

He braced himself on his knees, then balanced his hands on either side of him. Ready to grip whatever they could find in the mud beneath him.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face. The way she had looked at him that first time he had met her, the firelight gleaming against her hair. The surprise, the interest. He could count the freckles on her nose as they were as clear as his own face.

Tamlin had picked up the whip behind him, he could hear it slithering across the mud. He focused only on her.

The way her eyes sparkled like a thousand stars, like nothing he had ever seen before-

 _Snap._

 _Shit._ He managed to keep any sound from escaping his lips as the ash burned through his skin. Hot blood began trickling down his back. Tamlin had been holding nothing back, the first marks hitting from his left top shoulder to down his right hip.

"One." He muttered. Loud enough that Amarantha would hear him, but no more.

 _Snap._

The coopery scent of his blood filled the air. The second hit started from the right and moved to the left. Tamlin was experimenting. Making sure that he caused the optimal amount of pain.

"Two." He muttered this time. Rhysand couldn't help but tense in between. It was unbearable, a burning, impossible amount of pain.

 _Snap._ "Three."

His back was seizing already, the muscles flickering beneath broken skin.

 _Snap._ "Four."

 _Snap._ "Five."

 _Snap. Snap._

Rhys made it twelve without any inkling of pain escaping his lips. Like Lucien, his back was nothing but ground meat by this time. The spikes at the end of the whip had pulled a large amount of skin from his lower back and _Cauldron…_

He let a hiss escape his lips, his face contorted in pain. Feyre's eyes were harder to imagine now…

"Twelve." Rhysand whispered. The hot blood was dripping over his legs… his feet. Soaking through his boots.

They would be impossible to save now.

 _Snap. Snap. Snap._

With each lash of pain, a fire was set anew across Rhysand's back.

By the time he reached twenty, he was finding it hard to stay conscious. It was like wading through water every time he spoke; he was sinking deep into a lake of fire… every inch of him was burning.

Tamlin persisted none the less, each snap just as purposeful and hard as the last.

At twenty-two, he must have faded out for a moment as he could hear a woman's voice saying, "Oh good. Perhaps we will have a recount." Her voice was high and excited.

 _What was he supposed to be doing?_ There was so much pain… an absurd amount. Why was he alive? How could he possibly still be alive and hurt this much? Was this what hell felt like?

But, just as the whip hissed behind him, he remembered.

"Twenty-TWO!" Rhysand gasped out now. The whip had hit his lower back as he finished the word.

A frustrated snarl echoed somewhere behind him.

But Feyre… who was Feyre? Starlight eyes flickered in and out… a tattooed hand. The glow of skin against his own.

"Twenty-three." He remembered. He was groaning now, his back trembling. The muscles were searing, broken… his power couldn't heal him. Why was he so weak?

Everything burned. He had to be in hell.

 _Snap._

"Twenty-four." He moaned. So much pain. It was too much to bear… Cauldron, just let him die. Just let him go.

 _Snap._

Rhysand was sinking still, unable to get through the fog. So much fire…

"Twenty-five." He gasped out finally.

Whispers burst around him. _Whore. Whore._ So many minds, yelling at him, pushing him down, down, down…

He gasped out another breath, those starlight eyes the only thing he could see at the bottom of the pool.

He slipped into the pool of fire, and he did not resurface.

* * *

His dreams were filled with flame, a shrill laugh in the background. His wings were spread behind him, pinned to the bed…

A woman on top of him, smiling, her red hair gleaming. But pain sheared his wings as her clawed hands ripped open the membrane of his wings, and she opened her mouth- her mouth full of sharp pointed teeth.

But then she was gone, and he was again spiraling through the flames.

Something tugged at him, and he tugged back. It was a sliver of golden light, a thread but smaller than a thread tethering him to something.

So, he slid through the fire, the pain burning over every inch of his body. A woman was there again in the fire with him, her hair burnished gold and gleaming. Starlight surrounded her, she looked so familiar, but he couldn't remember who she was…

Why did it hurt so bad?

 _What had he done to deserve this?_

 _Was he in hell?_

* * *

Rhysand awoke with a gasp. He was laying on his stomach on a soft material… he tried to look but his eye lids were so heavy.

He struggled for a moment, pushing against that soft surface off his stomach but _oh- god damn_ did that hurt.

 _Okay. Bad idea. Just lay here for a moment. No turning. F_

Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out.

With some trained effort he finally opened his eyes, his eyelids like metal plates.

A fireplace was glowing softly from nearby, a plush armchair sitting comfortably in front of it. The soft surface… that was a bed. _His_ bed. Under the Mountain.

 _Right._

Rhysand swallowed a few times, memories of the past day drifting back through him. But… what day was it?

He was so thirsty.

He struggled to sit up for a moment before quickly giving up on that prospect.

 _Wraiths_. He called out with his mind, searching for their abyss minds.

They were nearby, luckily. Guarding his door. His heart softened for a moment as he recognized he had not ordered them to guard him while he was injured.

Nuala and Cerridwan appeared before him from the shadows underneath his bed. He would have been unsettled by this if he hadn't of sensed their creeping after he called them to him.

"You're awake, High Lord." Nuala said quietly, her voice all whispers and mist.

"Yes." Rhysand rasp. His throat was burning. "Water, please."

Cerridwan headed to the restroom in search of water, but Nuala lingered as her sister gathered the items.

"How long?" Rhysand managed to get out.

"Two days." Nuala answered. Cerridwan poured him a cup of cool water while he struggled again to sit up.

Nuala had to help him. Gods, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. It had been a bitch to heal from the first time but…

Rhysand swallowed the water quickly. The glass was empty much too soon.

"Why so long?" He muttered, closing his eyes. His stomach was churning from drinking so quickly. Every time he took a breath it pulled at the wounds.

"The ash in the whip leaves tiny shards… We took as many out as we could find. The others will have to come out as you heal." Nuala answered.

Cerridwan handed him another glass of water. He sipped it more carefully this time.

"And Feyre?" His heart pounded painfully in his chest. She had been injured quite severely… and if no one had been to heal her…

They were quiet for a moment.

He opened his eyes in alarm. They looked back at him.

"Is she alive?" He said in alarm, nearly dropping the glass.

"She is alive." Nuala answered quietly.

"But?"

"Her wound… it appears to be infected. She hasn't eaten since the challenge. She burns up with fever." Cerridwan answered this time. She rarely spoke… it was strange to have her answer his questions.

 _Shit._ "And no one has come to heal her wound?"

"No. Amarantha stated that it would be the Cauldron's will if she died from her wound when asked about her. Tamlin has made no attempt… not while he is watched as he is. And Lucien remains incapacitated." Her voice was barely audible.

Nuala spoke up finally, her voice the sound of velvet over skin, "She is dying, High Lord."

Rhysand groaned quietly. He stood, his knees wobbly underneath him. He had to save her.

"There is a tonic for your pain on your nightstand, High Lord." Nuala murmured.

He gripped the back of his chair as he stumbled towards the bathroom. "Perhaps later, my wraiths. I need to think."

After he had relieved himself and drank another glass of water, some of his energy was returning. It felt as though Amarantha had returned his powers back to the level of before the first trial. It seemed he was at least somewhat, forgiven.

He examined his back in the mirror for a moment. It was mostly healed, the muscles underneath just needing time to stitch back together. A few open areas remained where ash splinters could not be extracted but as he tensed the muscles in his back and swirled his power a moment a few miniscule shards of ash peaked their way out of his skin.

 _Lovely._ The relief was instant.

He stumbled back from the bathroom then, sinking into his chair. His wraiths remained nearby but had sunk back into the shadows nearby his door. Listening.

How could he save her? If he went and healed her, Amarantha would know for sure what he was doing. He had to make it look like it benefited him for her to be alive… Just as the bet. It benefited him for her to win the first challenge.

But how? How could healing her benefit him… without it looking like he wanted her to win.

He could strike a bargain with her. Against her will though… that seemed unlikely.

But he could try. But what could she offer him?

She was beautiful but… there were a few lines that Rhysand didn't cross when it came to bargains. Sex being one of them. And Tamlin… if he was freed by some miracle, he might very well kill Rhysand instead of Amarantha first.

She was a human. Something he was unfamiliar with other than Jurian, of course. He had fought along humans but spent most of his time in camps with his own Illyrian warriors. He had ignored them, not that he felt better than them, but they were different. So young, compared to him. They thought him a freak.

If they could get past this… Rhys suspected there was something more sinister than even Amarantha coming. She was from Hybern. Most of her men were from Hybern… and if she had really turned against the king, changed her ways, he suspected they would not be staying with her out of alliance to her. No. Amarantha was here as a test… and they were all failing miserably.

Perhaps Feyre could be an emissary of sorts. Between his people and her own, should a war erupt about this whole mess.

An emissary. Something she certainly would not agree to… and Amarantha couldn't know that she agreed to that.

No, perhaps one day, but that wouldn't work for now. Feyre hated him now, and he needed her to hate him in the future for Amarantha to believe this bargain had been for his own benefit and not Feyre's.

Rhysand stared into the fire. He took a bit of jerky off the tray nearby, hoping that he could get some protein in his system.

It tasted like sandpaper as he chewed.

Perhaps… he could be more selfish. He could ask for exchange of his healing services _her._ Not sexually, not… anything more than just her. Spending time with him.

In the Night Court, should they manage to survive under this retched mountain.

That would certainly anger Tamlin… and he couldn't just ask for her without consequences. He would have to make it more elaborate. Perhaps parade her around like his trophy when the moment was right. Just enough to anger Tamlin, confuse Amarantha… but not enough to arouse suspicion of his motives.

Not enough to change how Feyre felt about him.

Rhysand finished chewing and tried to swallow the meat.

His heart fluttered in his chest for a moment.

He remembered how that room had felt after she threw that spear… there was elation, a sense of victory. A sense of hope. And if he could heal Feyre, make her someone to love, someone to believe in… he could spread that hope. Let it grow, let it turn into something powerful.

He had figured it out. A way to heal her without arising suspicion… and a way to have an excuse to see her. To perhaps know her after this.

And that cruel part of Rhysand purred as he thought about how Tamlin's face would look when he pulled his mortal plaything to parade around him.

But a small part of him smiled when he realized he could see her; he could save her. He could make his salvation into something more: a symbol of hope. And for him, personally, a way to get revenge at Amarantha for enslaving him. And a way to get back at Tamlin for whipping him without thought, a way to get back at him for what he did to his mother, what he did to Livana. A way to get back at Tamlin for having _her._

Rhysand smiled grimly, standing again from the chair. His knees were less wobbly, his power healing him more with time.

He began to dress slowly, not wanting to rip at the newly healed muscle.

Now for the hard part: Getting that fiery human girl to agree to a bargain that could save their lives.

* * *

Guess you know what that means... next chapter is the bargain scene. Yay!

Please review. :)


	13. The Bargain

Hello everyone.

I know what you're going to say... two updates in 1 week? What?

I have been sick and missed work for a day, hence the extra writing time.

This is the scene we have all been waiting for.

Sorry it is so short, I just think it would be foolish of me of me to dribble on. I think it ends in the right place.

Enjoy, and please review!

* * *

Rhysand picked out his usual black tunic with silver accents, one of the less ostentatious pieces from his miniscule wardrobe. He dressed himself gingerly, the healed skin on his back stretching over his sore muscles with every movement.

Ash was annoying. Even with most of the splinters out, it left him feeling weak. Even with his power lingering underneath his skin once again, he was unable to heal himself. No part of his back remained open or scabbed, which he supposed was a blessing compared to mortal healing. Regardless, the twinge across his shoulders and lower back as he laced his new black leather boots was enough to make him grit his teeth.

He stood from his chair by the fireplace, bouncing on his heels a few times to test the fit of the boots. Nuala and Cerridwan had been kind enough to burn his old, blood-soaked clothes and did not answer him when he asked where they had found the new clothing. He was no fool however and had recognized the hallmark scent of Velarian leather. His heart caught in his throat for a moment as he thought of his friends.

Morrigan, Cassian and maybe even Azriel… they would all be dead by now. There is no way in hell they would have let that red-haired bitch whip him. He was thankful that they were not there with him, that this burden was something he could carry on his own. Amren would have been the only one who may have survived in the depravity Under the Mountain, if not only for the reason that no one could kill her.

And that was why Rhysand had made her his second-in-command. She would be able to make the hard choices, and she was closest thing to immortal as anything he had ever seen. The year would fade into eons, the earth crumbled into dust and Amren would be floating through space. Probably ruling over a clan of alien creatures as she floating on by.

He stretched his arms above his head, testing exactly far he could stretch his skin without a tearing the new skin. It hurt, his muscles aching and burning, but his skin stayed intact. There were a few more splinters imbedded in the muscles in his back, but those would have to wait for another time.

The wraiths materialized from the shadows around the door, the darkness pulling at their forms as they strolled in his direction.

Nuala reached for a stoppered bottle on the nearby table, and before she could grab it Rhysand held out a hand.

"No. I need my powers sharp and my mind clear. No pain elixir." His voice was starting to sound like his own.

Without a word, Nuala silently set the bottle back down on the table.

They both looked at him in curiosity. Rhysand drew the darkness into him, allowing the shadows to cover his body in their cool embrace.

When he looked down at himself, he was a man of shadows and mist. He gave a small smile, holding his hand out in front of his eyes. "Shall we go make a bargain, wraiths?"

Nuala simply faded back into the shadows, slipping to the floor in a pile of mist. Cerridwan gave him a nod and smile before melting down into the shadows.

* * *

Nuala and Cerridwan led the way down to the prison cells, knowing all paths Under the Mountain better than Rhysand could ever hope. They sensed things even Rhysand couldn't long before they appeared. He really didn't want to be discovered out in the hallway so soon after his punishment. He was sure that the word of his quick recovery would quickly reach ears that he wasn't quite ready to whisper into yet.

So, his wraiths winded their way down the hallway, jumping from shadow to shadow. Disappeared into the wall, the shadows, to avoid searching eyes. Rhysand followed them, using his magic in a way that he hadn't in so long. It was kind of like using an old weapon, familiar and yet unwieldy until his muscles grew accustomed to them. He twisted the night around him, fading his body into the shadows.

The pull on his power was more than he would like to admit, but it was manageable. His wards were all holding.

They didn't encounter a single soul until they reached the corridor in front of the antechamber to the prison. Rhysand slipped behind a tapestry as he heard their grunting voices ambling down the hall, and after a moment two red-skinned guards rounded the corner. He recognized them as the pair that had dragged Feyre to the first trial.

"-won't last another two nights if you ask me. Maybe we won't be seeing a second trial after all." One of their snorting voices chortled.

"Five marks that she won't last the night," the other grunt grumbled.

"You got it. It's disappointing though, I wanted to see what our Queen-" they opened the door, Rhysand slipping into the shadows behind them. "-has planned for the little slut."

Rhysand quickly faded into the shadows by the spit. Neither guard noticed the flickering of three shadows in the faelight.

"Perhaps another monster?"

"No, no. You know she never does the same thing twice."

 _Any minute now, High Lord. Get nearby the cell door._ Nuala's whispering thoughts brushed against the antechamber of his mind.

Rhysand jumped from the shadows nearby the spit in the center of the room, to the thin shadows nearby that metal cell door. If the grunts were looking hard now, they would surely see the outline of a man lurking next to the door way. A part of him urged to use his magic just to slide through the wall, but there were wards set up against that and the expense of his power would be-

The door clicked, and then starting creaking as it slid against the dusty floor. Before he could think about it, he had whipped around the door and into the hallway behind a large jawed, yellow toothed lesser fae.

He felt the brush of cool air against his skin as two dark eyed wraiths slid into the corridor behind him, just as the door softly clicked shut.

He paused, listening, "Samson, took you long enough, man-"

"How's the bitch looking, eh-"

Rhysand blocked out the chattering and turned back to hallway before him.

It was darkly lit as usual, flickering blue faelights floating down the hallway. It was a long hall of wooden doors, a small metal grate at the bottom and eye level at each door. Eerily silent, not even rough breathing was heard as Rhysand made his way towards Feyre's door due to the spell designed to torture Amarantha's prisoners.

The last door the left had been her own cell previously, and he was not disappointed as he approached her door. The spells kept him from hearing her, but he could… feel her. Her presence. Her mind was behind that door.

Nuala and Cerridwan were behind him, and he nodded once to them as they took up a spot in the shadows on either side of her cell. Their presence on this trip hadn't been a necessity but the wraiths had lingered around him since his punishment. When he had asked them not to come the looks he had been met with was enough to chill even his own bones.

Drawing the shadows into himself, he made himself invisible. His head spun for a moment with the effort, and he let that feeling pass before slipping directly through the door.

As he entered that dimly lit room, he was disturbed to see starlight eyes glaring blearily at the cell door, which he was standing directly in front of. Feyre was sitting with her back to the far wall of the cell, her face hidden partially by the shadows. Her right arm was crossed over her stomach, rising and falling with the quick breaths that were entering and escaping her lungs. Her left arm lay uselessly by her side, a torrent of dried and fresh blood alike leaving a pool under her and coating her mud-stained shirt. A white bone remained glimmering from the wound in her arm, barely visible in the dim light.

Feyre was covered from head to toe in that muddy filth she had been coated in during her first task, no one bothering to allow her to clean herself since the event. The mud had started to flake off her face and bare arms, thin rivets of pale skin peaking out under her eyes where tears had been leaking down her face. Her eyes, while open were blinking slowly, like it was an effort to keep her eyes open.

 _Here goes nothing_.

Rhysand held his breath as he allowed his shadows and night to ripple from him, the darkness leaking away from him and into the shadows of the world. His eyes bore into her own, and a lazy smile slipped onto his lips. Rhysand, the night triumphant. A creature of shadows and fear looked back at the human girl.

A scowl fell across her face as she took in the male form before her, the clouds in her eyes momentarily dissipating.

 _Happy to see you too, love._

"What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion," Rhysand was pleased to hear that his voice was again near normal. His smile grew as she glared at him.

"Go to Hell," she managed to grumble out, her voice like pieces of paper rubbing together. The force of her voice seemed to take energy out of her, her eyes fading back to mist for a minute and her good hand tremored against her abdomen.

Cauldron, she looked like shit. Cerridwan had said she was dying but… He approached her slowly, dropping into a crouch in front of her so that he could see the part of her face that was obscured by the shadows of the cell. All he could smell was the filth that monster that left behind and that infected wound poisoning the air. He sniffed once, trying to find a stronger inkling of that enticing scent she let off… the sour scent of sick was lingering in the far corner of her cell.

There was a pile of still full food trays in that corner. It looked like she had pushed that food as far away from her as possible in the cell. A splatter of the vomit sat nearby. He couldn't help but grimace.

As he lowered into his crouch, she shifted slightly like she was trying to get away from him. It appeared she was too weak to do more than wince away.

Her heartbeat was so desperately fast, the heat pouring from her struggling body was a pressure against Rhysand's face.

Yes, she didn't have long. Death very well could have been lurking in a corner of her cell.

He cocked his head once, letting his face take on a serious look. He reached up, brushing a gentle hand against her forehead. She was burning up, almost painful to touch.

"What would Tamlin say," he murmured, "if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched." Much as his own was… but Rhys had shadows on his side.

It didn't hurt that he was much cleverer than Tamlin as well.

"Get away," Feyre gasp at him, her eyes watering as if the words pained her. She tried to swallow.

Cauldron, give him strength.

Rhysand rose a careful eyebrow, staring into those bleary eyes. Her face was so pale. "I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?"

"Get away." She mumbled, her eyes struggling to stay open.

"You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor." _Let us see just how clever you are, darling Feyre._

Feyre didn't answer him. She just leaned her head back against the hard wall behind her, not seeming to notice the sharp crack her skull made against the stone. She was turning green.

 _Shit._ Perhaps healing first, deals later.

Rage slithering up his face, burning him. This girl had fought for them all, had won the first challenge that many faeries would have struggled to win. Amarantha was going to let her _die_ , just rot away in a jail cell. _Amarantha said that it was the Cauldron's will if she died from her wound…_

It was _never_ the Cauldron's will to let a human girl rot in faerie prison during an unfair trial.

"Let me see your arm," Rhysand said, his voice low.

Feyre didn't move. She was slowly closing her eyes.

"Let me see it." Rhysand growled. Before he could change his mind, he gripped the elbow of her injured arm, pulling her arm into the dim faelight.

Feyre arched her back, biting her lip against the pain. She was silently screaming.

Guilt for causing her pain was quickly replacing the rage, but he pushed that back. Cruel, unyielding. That's who he needed to be.

"Oh, that's wonderfully gruesome." Rhysand smiled, if only because the eyes that looked at him now were no longer hiding behind mist.

"You disgusting bastard," she hissed.

"Such words from a lady," he chuckled as those eyes became daggers.

"Get out," she hissed again, her voice cracking.

He cocked his head again, trying to keep her from slipping back into the haze. "Don't you want me to heal your arm?" He gripped her elbow tighter.

"At what cost?" She snapped. Interesting. Feyre was clever indeed.

"Ah, that," a teasing smile spread across his face. "Living among faeries has taught you some of our ways."

She looked away from him, her face strange. Curious, Rhysand examined her thoughts. _Unsettled._ She was unsettled by him. She began picking mud out from underneath her fingernails on her good hand, closing her eyes

"I'll make a trade with you," Rhysand continued. He had to do this the right way, or it would come out wrong. He was thankful she couldn't hear his own heart as he spoke. "I'll heal your arm in exchange for you." Her eyes flew open.

"Two weeks every month, two weeks of my choosing, you'll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business."

"No." She snapped, shaking her head.

"No?" He leaned forward until her breath was on his face. Her breath still smelled like her… and familiar. Like how a scent brought you back to a memory, but you couldn't place your finger on which one. "Really?" His eyes were burning into her.

"Get out," she breathed at him. Her eyes were defiant.

"You'd turn down my offer- and for what?"

Feyre said nothing.

"You must be holding out for one of your friends – for Lucien, correct? After all, he healed you before, didn't he?" Because Rhysand used his powers to make him… In Lucien's defense, he hadn't been difficult to convince.

She looked away from him. _How did he know?_ He heard her thought like she had called his name.

"Oh, don't look so innocent. The Attor and his cronies broke your nose. So unless you have some kind of magic you're not telling us about, I don't think human bones heal that quickly."

Feyre continued to look anywhere but at him, but her thoughts were like she was throwing them at him. Rhysand stood, pacing back and forth as the anxious energy he had been trying to contain was escaping. His back burned, but he ignored it.

"The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer."

Feyre glared at him and spit a pitiful looking bit of spittle at his feet. Honestly, it was impressive that she knew how to spit that far. Rhysand only shot an annoyed look at her and continued his ramblings.

"The second option- and the one only a fool would take- would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus _Tamlin's_ , in the hands of chance."

When he had said his part, he stopped pacing and turned to look her in the eye, staring at her. There were few things he wanted more out of his life than for her to agree to this bargain… two weeks, every month he could know her. It was something to live for. And it allowed him to protect her, to heal her. To make her _his,_ at least within the bounds of the bargain.

 _Listen, Feyre. Hear me. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes._

She looked up into his face this time, and whatever part of her that was so defensive, that had said 'no' so quickly, was quieted. Her breathing slowed and her mind went blank. She was listening.

"Let's say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he'll come in five days. Perhaps he won't come at all. Between you and me, he's been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha's not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared- such a noble warrior, your High Lord. She listened, of course- but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien's punishment. Twenty lashes."

Feyre began trembling, her face growing pale as bone underneath the filth. Visions of Tamlin whipping Lucien were shooting through her mind.

Rhysand shrugged. "So, it's really a question of how much you're willing to trust Lucien- and how much you're willing to risk for it. Already you're wondering if that fever of yours the first sign of infection. Perhaps they're unconnected, perhaps not. Maybe it's fine. Maybe that worm's mud isn't full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you'll either be dead, or they'll find your arm so infected that you'll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.'

He approached her. _Say yes, say yes. Don't be a fool._ His eyes were begging her, but she stared up at him in hatred.

"I don't need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you've slowly been realizing." Rhysand sunk again to a crouch in front of her. Their faces were only inches apart.

"You're dying." He whispered the words. They left his lips and he knew she felt the caress of his breath across her face.

Her eyes filled with tears, her face a grimace of pain and hatred. She bit her lips together.

"How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?"

Those tear-filled eyes started to overflow even as she looked him with unadulterated hatred. _He did this. He told Amarantha about Clare. He made Tamlin beg._

Rhysand hid the sting behind her thoughts deep below the surface. He wasn't sure why her thoughts bothered him, so many others had thought the same things.

"Well?" His voice was steady.

She bared her teeth at him, "Go. To. Hell." The words were a growl. Tears shivered down her face, turning brown with filth.

 _Foolish. She cannot say no. She will die._

Before he could change his own mind, he lashed out of her, grabbing that broken shard of bone in her arm and twisting.

Feyre's scream shattered through the cell, the sound so raw and aching he felt Nuala and Cerridwan recoil. She thrashed beneath him, so weak, so unable to stop him. Hopeless against his strength.

Just as she would be hopeless unless she accepted his help.

When he could bear it no longer, he released her arm. She panted, sobbing. Her breaths were wet and broken. When she finally found the strength, she opened her eyes to look at him again.

He smirked at her, the mask slipping over the horror.

She spat at him, and he did not flinch back. He let it hit him in the face, just below his left cheek. He knew he deserved it.

Rhysand laughed darkly as he stood, self-hatred and misery a torrent within him. He could barely tell up from down, let alone knowing if he had won her… He wiped the spit off his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

"This is the last time I'll extend my assistance," he strolled to the cell door, turning back to look at her. "Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead."

She spat at him again.

Maybe he had gone too far. Maybe he had thrown her off a cliff, where death waited for her at the bottom.

Rhysand shook his head, letting his mask slip off for a minute.

"I bet you'll be spitting on Death's face when she comes to claim you, too."

Rhysand began to fade into the shadows, not planning on leaving. He let his edges blur into his night, but his eyes lingered on her own. He would watch her even after she thought he was gone. He would need to think…

But as he began to fade the expression on her face changed. Indecision clouded the hatred. _I might be dying… And if Lucien couldn't come… Lucien underestimated me… He'd sent me to hunt the Suriel with a few knives and a bow._ Rhysand was surprised at this. She had captured the Suriel?

Rhysand was being swallowed up by the shadows when-

"Wait."

Rhysand paused. Her thoughts poured out of her. _For Tamlin, I would sell my soul; I would give up everything I had for him to be free._

A feeling of elation filled him even as she whispered again, "Wait."

He stripped the shadows off him. He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, "Yes?"

She lifted her head off the stone to look at him properly. Her chin was pointed up in the air, and she looked at him with a noble expression. "Just two weeks?" The human queen asked him.

"Just two weeks," he purred at her, kneeling before her majesty. "Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask."

"Why? And what are to … to be the terms?" She asked, her voice weak again.

Rhysand was so tempted to tell her all his plans, to tell her everything… but then his plans would be ruined.

"Ah," he adjusted his tunic, looking away from her. "If I told you those things, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"

She grew quiet.

She swallowed once. Feyre looked at her injured arm, glaring at it like it was a particularly rebellious pet.

Then, she looked at him. "Five days." The queen was back.

"You're going to bargain?" He chuckled. A woman after his own heart. Very well, two could play at that. "Ten days."

She held his gaze. "A week."

Rhysand examined her, the weight of her gaze pressing into him heavily. She was sold now; he could have asked for any amount of time. She would have to agree… And a week. A week felt like such an impossibly short amount of time. But time with her hadn't really been the point of this bargain… she would allow him to heal her.

He searched her face for any inkling of realization for what he was about to do. There was nothing… just hatred. Determination.

He looked over her hands, the painter's hands he had seen creating those poppies all those months ago. She had been carefree, had enough freedom and ease in her life to be able to spend time painting.

Things had changed so immensely since that time.

He was thankful that the Cauldron had even let him see her. He was thankful for any amount of time under her gaze.

"A week it is." He said finally.

"Then it's a deal." She said, laying her head back on the stone again.

He grinned in a wild, wicked way as the magic stirred over them. The bargain mixing with his own healing magic… he gripped her injured arm before she could think further on it. She screamed as his magic tore the bone from her flesh, the infected blood pulling from underneath her skin, the skin beginning to knit together. As her arm healed, the magic inquired about the customary tattoo indicating a bargain with his court. His mind switched back to that dream he had experienced, the one where she had been with him in the House of Wind and-

Rhysand grinned, as a possessive sense of satisfaction poured over him when he examined his handywork. Feyre had passed out as the bone had been ripped from her skin, but she remained leaning against the wall. On her left arm, the previously injured arm was covered by a swirling Illyrian tattoo of luck and glory. This one in particular was usually earned after showing particular cunning and skill on the battlefield. In the palm of her hand a feline eye was looking up at the ceiling of the cell. That had been Rhysand's own doing. He couldn't help but make it exactly how it had looked in his dream. His magic had also scrubbed the worst of the dirt from her skin and hair, although small molecules would remain behind. It left her skin pale and glowing from being Under the Mountain for so long, much dissimilar to her tanned skin during Calanmai.

She was beginning to stir, and she opened her eyes. They were inexplicably clear as they turned to Rhysand. She slowly sat up, her right hand going to run a finger through her hair which had returned to its golden brown, silky waves.

She turned her eyes to her left arm next and froze.

"What have you done to me?" Her voice was no longer weak.

Rhysand moved away from her, standing before her instead of kneeling. "It's custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh." A small amount of guilt itched at his chest, but he ignored it. She would have never agreed had she known.

She rubbed at the tattoo, trying to wipe away the ink like it was dirt. She stared at her palm incredulously.

"Make it go away." Feyre said numbly.

Rhysand chuckled, "You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren't you?"

She flipped her arm backwards and forwards, moving it farther and closer from her face. Examining every inch of that mark. She examined a small flower that sat between her thumb and index finger. Rhysand glanced down at it as well. It was beautiful.

"You didn't tell me this would happen," she accused.

"You didn't ask. So how am I to blame?" Rhysand smiled, drawing the night into himself again as he strolled to the door.

"Unless this lack of gratitude and appreciation is because you fear a certain High Lord's reaction." Rhysand's smirk was not fake this time. Tamlin… Tamlin had done nothing to deserve this girl. He had done nothing to deserve the chance to destroy Amarantha.

Feyre's shock turned quickly to shame. To regret. She looked from her tattooed hand to Rhysand.

"I think I'll wait to tell him until the moment's right, though," Rhysand murmured. He was not bluffing. A moment to get back at his worst enemy, for all the wrongs Tamlin had done against him. While he hated using Feyre like a pawn in this game of crowns… he would enjoy the look on Tamlin's face the first time he saw her tattoo. The first time the High Lord saw Feyre with _him_.

Feyre swallowed as she took in the gleam in his eyes.

"Rest up, Feyre." Rhysand purred at her.

Then, he disappeared into his cloak of shadows and mist and strolled directly through the cell door into the prison hallway.

Nuala and Cerridwan nodded at him, both carefully quiet.

Rhysand let out the shaky breath he had been keeping in, leaning back against the cell door as he sucked in the musty air of the jail.

 _Is it done?_ Nuala asked him, mind to mind.

Rhysand nodded once at her, the guilt of his bargain swallowing him up.

Powers be damned, he seized up every inch of his power, tearing through the wards that kept faeries from winnowing inside the prison cell, and winnowed directly into his bedroom.

He threw himself down onto his bed and ignored the burning of his back with the effort. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets.

She was alive. That was all that mattered.

Now Rhysand just had to play the game.

* * *

Yay. Please review :)


	14. Lentils and Lilacs

Hiya! Happy Thursday. :)

All of you that have been reviewing, I just want you to know that I appreciate it so much. A little part of me has a dance party every time I get an email notification.

This chapter was rough to write, Rhysand is at a weird place at this part in the story. The internal struggle is **real** and man, that is difficult to write.

As usual, enjoy and review!

P.S. There is a scene below in which Rhys is having some less than appropriate thoughts about a certain human girl... if this makes you uncomfortable just skip over the scene with Amarantha.

* * *

From the moment Rhysand had made that bargain with Feyre, something within him changed. It wasn't as though something was missing or altered, but rather as if something had been added. He had made many bargains over the years, most of them small and petty. But not even the few powerful bargains had affected him this way. Whenever someone from his court, or himself, made a bargain both participants were affected by tattoos that symbolized their deal. Only when the deal was completed would the tattoo disappear.

Feyre's tattoo was beautiful and obvious, swirling flowers and symbols up her left arm. Intricate so that if seen from far away it looked as though she wore a dark lace glove, her tanned skin peaking through the design. Rhysand however, tended to keep his tattoos simple. When he had slipped back into his room with the help of his wraiths, still numb from his own actions, he had stripped quickly with a warm bath in mind. He hadn't considered the fact that the bargain would have influenced his own tattoos as wave after wave of thoughts and schemes overwhelmed him…

As he stepped into his bath, spiced with lemon verbena and jasmine (a familiar scent that reminded him of home), he nearly slipped when he noticed the small strand of intricate purple flowers snaking across his ribs on either side. Upon further examination, he scratched at the skin, realizing that they both smelled and looked like a spring of lilac flowers. He stopped scratching at the spot like some fool, realizing that this was not a temporary mark. He instead, leaning back in the warm water, crossed his arms across his chest, touching each new tattoo with his bare fingers.

As he touched the new mark, he was thrown into a foreign emotion. An emotion… that wasn't his own. Regret. Deep, unrelenting, shame.

 _What a fool am I… what will Tamlin think? I betrayed him._

The thoughts rang like a melody in his mind.

Rhysand snatched his hands away from the tattoos.

 _Cauldron._ He could hear her thoughts now from his own room… while she was thousands of feet away in the prison. That certainly had never happened in his own history of making bargains.

Shit. What does this mean?

He washed quickly then, his thoughts an uneven beat inside his head. After he was clean he stood in front of the mirror above his sink, his heart pounding as he traced his fingers again over the floral markings. The flowers were a few shades lighter than his own eyes, and _shit,_ he hadn't just imagined that it smelled like her.

Rhysand swallowed, ignoring the onslaught of foreign emotion that slid into his mind as he touched that tattoo.

Well. He supposed it would be easier to keep an eye on her now that they had this strange connection, whatever it was. Maybe that's why her tattoo was in the shape of an eye on her hand… maybe it was because Rhysand knew he would always look after her.

He frowned though, tracing a finger over the edges. Cassian and Azriel would certainly never let his lavender stained tattoo go. Cassian had nearly laughed him out of his own home when Mor had convinced him that he could use eyeliner to accentuate his eyes.

He used a small piece of his magic while his hand hovered over the tattoo, maintaining the shape of the flowers but fading them into a shade of gray and black. The floral tattoo still clashed terribly with his Illyrian markings, but still, they were small enough that only Rhysand would know they were there.

He touched them once more, ensuring he hadn't done anything to destroy that connection between them. Rhysand slipped his eyes closed, willing himself to strengthen that thread, that connection, until he was _in_ her mind. She must have fallen asleep now, her thoughts no longer linear and musical but vague images and ideas. Not without a little effort, Rhysand returned to his own mind and looked at himself again in the mirror.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know what that connection was.

* * *

His day traveled by slowly after his busy morning, and he attempted to distract himself with training and drinking, injured back be damned. Rhysand kept his mind carefully searching, examining members of the court as they walked by for any inkling of his bargain.

He felt as though he had a dirty secret, and some part of him looked forward to the moment that his secret was revealed.

To his own chagrin and occasional relief, no one seemed to have any knowledge of his bargain with the human girl. But, as he sipped his wine that night on his favorite burgundy couch, surrounded by his favorite golden-haired faeries, he was pleased to discover the flow of thoughts that surrounded him.

 _I wonder if Tamlin would be strong enough to kill her if that girl can set him free…_

 _What was her name, 'Feyre'? Like the ancient faerie Queen?_

 _If that bone would have impaled the Red Queen that day…_

 _I wonder what the second trial will be._

It was enough to make him smirk as took a long drag of his wine. Amarantha and Tamlin were presiding over their thrones, Tamlin impassive as usual, once again falling into his silent protest. Amarantha was more subdued than usual. Plotting, if Rhysand could pretend to know her at all.

Regardless, the party that night seemed to be less about Amarantha's reign and more about Feyre's victory over the first trial.

That was something Rhysand could drink to.

Rhysand's plan was coming together smoothly. Feyre had been able to ignite a spark of hope as she completed that first challenge, and it seemed that a surprisingly small number of faeries noticed that she had been injured after the first challenge. The fae overall were a particularly self-infatuated group of creatures, it wasn't that they didn't care. They just didn't notice. Therefore, his bargain to save her would come as a surprise to both the courtiers and High Lords.

Now, Rhysand just had to decide when it would be best to reveal his secret, to taunt his enemy. Amarantha… she remained untrusting of him, ever since the Clare Beddor incident. She suspected that he purposefully kept the information about the human girl from her. Luckily enough, his touch had made her addicted to him. So even when she was distrustful, she craved him. Not to mention he was a useful servant, even if she didn't fully understand his motives.

It hadn't been what he had been going for, all those years ago, when he made himself her most loyal servant, but he supposed it was too late at this point. It was all starting to unravel now, and all he had to hope when they got to the end of the rope that it would be her body laying before him, not him before her. So, for now, sex and servitude were enough.

If he was totally honest, the part that would be the most difficult would be balancing Tamlin's anger. Tamlin hated him, a hatred much purer than Rhysand had anticipated, that much was clear from the events after the first trial. His back had nearly healed as the day went on, but his muscles took longer than he anticipated. He wondered if he would be expected to perform tonight… even laying on his back would be difficult. He suspected a few more ash shards would need to come out.

No, Rhysand had to be very careful about how he revealed his bargain. If everything went to plan, Feyre would beat these trials and Tamlin would regain his powers… if Amarantha decided not to do something stupid like hold off on freeing him. That was the one loophole that Rhysand had identified, and had no answer for.

His high spirits were quickly diminishing at the thought. Nothing he could do about that particular evasion.

Regardless, _when_ Feyre won the trials and Tamlin was released, he needed Tamlin angry. Furious. But _not_ furious at him, at least not more furious at him than at Amarantha. Amarantha would try to run or to strike a deal, so Tamlin needed to strike when she was still reeling from her loss. Tamlin was all brute strength and power, he wasn't cunning enough to go head to head with Amarantha. No, he had to overpower her with the sharpened edge of his rage.

Rhysand stood, keeping one eye on the contrasting couple, pulling one of the girls with him. He pulled her to the dance floor, trying to distract himself from his scheming thoughts. She giggled as he spun her around, his hands brushing her hips, her shoulders, her hair. Amarantha's dark eyes followed him, a look of hunger on her face. Rhysand hid his smirk in the shoulder of the faerie woman.

He nearly stumbled as his mind connected with another's, a mind filled with trepidation and panic, even of the beating of her thoughts were melodic. He fell into her mind, something that hadn't happened since he was a child and experimenting with his powers. She was hyperventilating, her hands over her eyes, her knees aching against a hard and dirty stone floor. She pulled her hands away from her face and his gaze traveled from her own eyes, into the eye of the tattoo on her palm. There was mud on her face, and his gaze was obscured as her hand dived into a bucket of muddy water.

 _The spit- tied to a spit like a roast pig._

Rhysand blocked himself out of her mind, throwing himself into his own body. His date was touching his face.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was high, her eyes concerned. Rhysand wondered briefly what court she came from.

Rhysand smiled at her seductively. "Fine, love. Excuse me a moment."

"But we have only just started!" She whined after him.

Rhysand beelined his way to the back of the room, needing a moment to breath. He thankful to discover that Amarantha had lost sight of him, distracted by Kallias who had approached her on her dais. He leaned against a cool part of the wall, far from the others.

Feyre was panicking. Something about a spit… and scrubbing the floor.

Something tickled at his memory.

" _Nothing beyond basic housework. It's only fair for you to earn your keep."_

Lovely. One of Amarantha's games.

He took a deep breath, wondering how he could get her out of this one. He could not leave… not without Amarantha knowing that he was gone. Not without her permission.

He looked around him, his mind whirling. There were other wallflowers, many of them lesser fae and many of them lovers. But, surprisingly, just a few feet away stood the Lady of Autumn Court. And next to her stood the High Lord of Day Court, Helion.

They were looking away from each other, just far enough apart that no one would think they were together.

But… The ladies' mouth was moving, subtlety, but moving none the less. And Helion made a subtle nod.

 _Hmm._

Rhysand saw an opportunity.

Helion suddenly looked up, making eye contact with Rhysand. His golden eyes narrowed, and then with a cursory glance at the Lady of Autumn Court, strolled off in the opposite direction.

The Lady looked up, noticing Rhysand's violet gaze and scintillating smile as he steadily approached. She was certainly beautiful, Rhysand could give her that. And certainly, she was good at having children. Not that she looked anything like the multiparous mother she was. Her skin was pale and flawless, her cheeks a rosy hue. As he strolled in her direction, her face heated heavily, and she looked around in panic.

Rhysand approached her, his smile dazzling.

"Hello, Lady. I hope you are enjoying the festivities. I know Helion certainly has been." He glanced to the right, where Helion was standing close enough to eavesdrop.

"It has been lovely, High Lord. Thank you." She spoke quietly, her voice sweet and kind. Her russet eyes were the same shade as Lucien's.

Rhysand cocked his head to the side, giving her a predatory gaze. "I know that your sons particularly have enjoyed their stay under the mountain."

She said nothing but looked at the floor in front of her feet.

"Well, all of your sons but perhaps one." Rhysand said quietly this time.

The Lady of the Autumn Court looked up at him now, meeting his gaze. He saw none of the meekness that had just been in her voice meet her eyes. He thought the air around them was growing a little warm, in fact.

Rhysand smiled lazily, leaning in so that only she could hear what he had to say. "Speaking of that son, there is a debt to be paid. If you are interested in paying that debt, I would head down two floors and go into the second door on the left."

The Lady looked at him in confusion.

"Wha-"

"Have a lovely evening, Lady." He winked at her once, and then turned to head back towards his burgundy couch.

Rhysand settled back onto his couch, wrapping his arms around the golden-haired faerie. The one he had been dancing with had been picked up by one of the Autumn Court brothers, although her gaze settled on the female on his side when they passed. Amarantha was now cooing at Tamlin, her hand brushing across his jaw line. Kallias had strolled to a different corner of the throne room, a look of vague disinterest on his face.

He wondered if the Lady would be the first to find out of his bargain… somehow, he hoped not.

Rhysand could not help but keep one foot into the mind that was somehow connected to him, tasting her feelings just as he scented the hair of the faerie on his lap.

After several minutes, he felt as though an egg had been cracked over his head and he physically relaxed as relief trembled through Feyre's mind.

His mental eye briefly passed into her mind, watching as a bucket of ever-cleaning water washed away the mud coating that hallway floor.

Rhysand settled back into his mind and drew up an extra shield around that bargain thread, blocking out Feyre's mind.

After only a few minutes he took it back down.

He huffed out a breath, keeping his eyes glued to the Red Queen across the room. He swirled his fingers down the thigh of the faerie on his lap.

This was getting out of hand.

* * *

Amarantha had taken him that night, and she seemed to receive extra pleasure from his discomfort. Tamlin watched, ever silent, ever disgusted. Only looking at Rhysand.

It was difficult to make things great for Amarantha when Rhysand was wincing with every press of her hips and his worst enemy was staring at all his most favorite parts.

In fact, it was nearly impossible for him to _participate_ until he had let his mind wonder. Something he had rarely had difficulty with, the Night Court quite literally being the Court of 'night-time' activities… it just so happened that he preferred consensual, unobserved relations. And his back really fucking hurt.

So, as Amarantha cooed above him, keeping her eyes on the beast across the room, Rhysand kept his eyes closed and did his best not to ruin his reputation in front of his worst, male enemy.

He tried to let his mind travel over scheming… no, that was doing nothing for him. Then he thought of his friends… _no, no._ Bad idea. Morrigan was his cousin and Amren… well. Amren was the only woman who had ever laughed at him. Rhysand thought about wrapping his hands around Amarantha's neck, squeezing until her face turned purple… no. Even that, was not enough for him tonight. Besides, he was _kinky,_ not violent.

Giving up, he moved his thoughts to the woman in the jail cell… the way she had looked in that dream. Feyre. In his dream… she had smiled at him. Her hair shimmered, shone in a way that only immortals could. Her freckles wrinkled as she smiled, her nose scrunching up. Her lips were so soft looking, pink… he wondered how they would look wrapped around-

 _Cauldron_. Alright. _Was he really doing this right now?_

He cracked open his eyes to see Amarantha with her head thrown back, her mouth open- _ugh. Definitely not helping._

Rhysand closed his eyes again, allowing Amarantha to pin his arms above his head. Okay. Okay. Alright. Maybe he could let his mind wonder into that road just a little bit… just get him through this moment. It doesn't have to result in a climax but… maybe just enough to keep his pride.

No one must know.

His mind traveled into places he wasn't proud of… but her lips… her legs… her eyes…

Feyre… Fay-ruh…

* * *

Rhysand rose that next morning, his back aching more than it had the previous night. Two more pieces of ash made their way out in the mirror, providing instant relief but his muscles were still not back to normal. His face heated a small amount as he remembered why exactly his back hurt him so, his guilty thoughts flushing his face.

Training. Perhaps training could accelerate his healing. He huffed out a breath and made his way to the sparring arena.

There were more faeries than usual in the arena when he arrived, something that he didn't mind. He always fought harder when there was a little bit of competition, not that anyone could keep up with him. That was one the reasons his brothers had been so close to him. They made the perfect fighting partners. Azirel and Cassian had beat his ass more times than he could remember… and no one other than them. At least no one other than them in a long time.

Several hours passed, and Rhysand had a small crowd gathered around him. A mass of dummies lay at his feet, sparing partners becoming sparse after hour one. He felt great. Better than he had felt in a long time in fact, even with the interspersed whispers around him.

 _Whore._

 _Why is he training?_

 _Who is he going to kill?_

He was working on his aim using throwing knives when a mind brushed against his own. A familiar mind.

 _High Lord._ The thoughts were all whispers and shadow, the mind an abyss.

 _Wraith._ He slammed another knife hilt-deep into the bullseye of a sand dummy.

 _The human girl is in your room._

Rhysand paused for a moment, twirling the knife in between his fingers. Aware that dozens of eyes were on him.

 _What?_

 _Guards dropped her into the room about an hour and a half ago. Something about lentils._

Rhysand began to make his way back to the weapons rack.

 _Thank you, ladies. I'll take care of it._

A chuckle of shadowy amusement whispered into the antechamber of his mind. _Ladies…_

Rhysand handed over his knives to the nervous clerk at the weapon rack, and snapped his fingers to get the worst of the grim and sweat off his skin. Then, he waved a hand over his chest, changing himself out of training leathers into his usual black trimmed tunic.

He shot a wink at his admirers and critics alike as he strolled from the room, waiting until the corridor was thankfully empty to fade himself into the shadows. As was the usual lately, the draw on his power was extreme but… it felt good. Like stretching a muscle that was long underused.

As he headed to his room, dodging members of Amarantha's court on his way he reached underneath his jacket, brushing his hands over the tattoo across his ribs.

The irritation seeping through that bargain line was enough to place a smirk across his lips.

 _What in the world could be in his room to have Feyre so worked up?_

Even with his amusement, he started walking a little faster, his heartbeat audible in his ears.

* * *

Rhysand approached his door, popping out of the shadows much to the surprise of a servant that was watching the human girl through his keyhole.

The servant dropped the sheets she was holding, her green skin blushing to the color of oak leaves in the shade as she took in his form.

Rhysand grinned at her, showing his teeth, his night filling the hallway. "Hello, love. See anything you like?"

She squeaked, scooping up the sheets from the floor and sprinted down the hall.

He waited until she turned the corner before he became a creature of darkness. The cruel, dark prince that he was supposed to be.

Then he unlocked his door with a flick of a finger.

Feyre lunged at the fire poker as the door flew open, standing straight at attention as Rhysand filled the room with his presence.

The darkness brushed against her face, which was splotched with soot, her eyes red and narrowed from irritation. She had a particularly dark dot of dirt on her nose. Her arms were hidden behind her back, clutching the poker as if her life depended on it. Her cloths, still stained from the mud, were now also strained with black soot, smears of it marking where she had tried to clean her hands on her shirt.

Her golden-brown hair swirled in the air around her head as the dark wind brushed across her. He settled on the nearby bed, laying on his side with his head resting on his hand. He absorbed his darkness, planting a small smile on his face.

"As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling, do I want to know why you're digging through my fireplace?"

She was gaping at him, her mouth open in an ring, those pink lips so tempting. Rhysand wallowed for a moment in his own self-disgust… this human was imprisoned, because of _him_ , because he failed to keep her _safe_ and all he can think about are how her bloody lips would feel against his own.

She bent her knees as she prepared to run from him, the panic from whatever promise those guards had given her taking over. "They said I had to clean out lentils from the ashes, or you'd rip off my skin."

"Did they now." His voice was soft, struggling to find that cruel edge.

"Do I have you to thank for this idea?" She hissed at him, glaring. _Is he going to hurt me?_ Her thoughts were music.

"Oh, no. No one's learned of our little bargain yet- and you've managed to keep it quiet. Shame riding you a bit hard?" Rhysand felt her shame even now, just as he had felt it from the moment he had left her in the prison. It stung, something much more acute now that she stood before him.

She clenched her jaw, revealing her untattooed hand to point at the fireplace. "Is this clean enough for you?"

He smiled in dark amusement. "Why were there lentils in my fireplace to begin with?"

Feyre glared at him. _Is he daft?_ "One of your mistress's household chores, I suppose."

Hmm. Another household chore… and this time a test. The question was, was she dropped off here by idea of the guards, or by idea of the Queen?

"Hm." Rhysand looked at his well-groomed nails, feigning disinterest, "Apparently she or her cronies think I'll find some sport with you."

Feyre paled for a moment before spitting out, "Or it's a test for you."

Rhysand raised his eyebrows. Feyre always seemed to surprise him. Was she warning him?

"You said you bet on me during my first task. She didn't seem pleased about it."

That was the understatement of the century. He held back a snort, and held her gaze, "And what could Amarantha possibly have to test me about?"

Think, Feyre. If she was testing him, she certainly though there was some connection between the two of them… or she thought that Rhysand would very well take care of her problem for her.

He expanded his mind, searching his room for any prying eyes or ears… he was surprised to find none. Hmm. Perhaps the guards would be reporting back to the Red Queen.

Feyre held his gaze. _Amarantha's whore._ Rhys nearly flinched at her thoughts. "You lied to her. About Clare. You knew very well what I looked like."

Dangerous words from a human girl… even one beautiful enough to entice two High Lord's of Prythian.

He sat up on the side of the bed, leaning forward until his forearms rested on his thighs. A small part of him enjoyed the way she glanced across his chest and arms, watching the way his muscle moved underneath his skin.

"Amarantha plays her games, and I play mine. It gets rather boring down here, day after day."

"She let you out for Fire Night," Feyre continued. "And you somehow got out to put that head in the garden."

Rhysand's heart clenched. "She asked me to put that head in the garden," he lied, unsure of why he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth. "And as for Fire Night…" Rhysand raked his eyes over her body, remembering the way she had looked that night. The way she had called to him. "I had my own reasons to be out then. Do not think, Feyre, that it did not cost me."

Rhysand forced a smile on his face, remembering the picts he had needlessly sentenced to torture and death… for her. They were cruel bastards but… the moment he had seen her had changed everything.

"Are you going to put down that poker, or can I expect you to start swinging soon?" Rhysand asked, changing the subject.

 _Shit._ Feyre cursed in her mind, moving the poker out from behind her back. She glared at him again.

"A valiant effort, but useless."

"How is it that you have such power still and the others don't? I thought she robbed all of you of your abilities."

Rhys again raised an eyebrow at her, surprised she was still asking questions. Didn't she hate him? "Oh, she took my powers. This …" he brushed his talons gently across her mind. Feyre jumped back, nearly hitting her head on the mantle of the fireplace. "This is just the remnant. The scraps I get to play with. Your Tamlin has brute strength and sharp-shifting; my arsenal is a far deadlier assortment." Not to mention that much of what Tamlin knew about fighting came from Rhysand's training.

Feyre surveyed him, curious but not afraid. "So you can't shape-shift? It's not some High Lord specialty?"

"Oh, all the High Lords can. Each of us has a beast roaming beneath our skin, roaring to get out. While your Tamlin prefers fur, I find wings and talons to be more entertaining."

She shivered but held his gaze. "Can you shift now, or did she take that, too?"

Rhysand rose to his feet, a lazy smile on his face. So, she wanted to see the worst of him. "So many questions from a little human."

He pulled free the barrier to the lesser side of him, the part that called to the wind, the night, the sky. Darkness shivered over his extremities and he held out his clawed hands before him. His canines pressed against his bottom lip.

"Not a full shift, you see," he didn't want to see the expression on her face, so instead he watched his clicking talons. He wiggled his toes. "I don't particularly like yielding wholly to my baser side."

This was true… Rhys wasn't sure that he could transform completely. He had never tried. He valued control over his mind and body more than he could afford to lose it. And losing control… that was what transformation was all about.

As Rhys looked up from his claws, he examined her face. It was all awe, and her starlight eyes were lingering at something behind his back. His wings. He spread the Illyrian wings out behind him, then slowly tucked them back against his back, his muscles burning. Perhaps revealing his wings before fully healing was not the wisest decision he had ever made.

 _Horrific… stunning. The face of a thousand nightmares and dreams._ Feyre stared, her blue-gray eyes sparkling in the firelight, her breath coming quickly as she examined the veins, the talons.

Shame filled Rhysand, burning and hot. He willed those parts of him away. His wings, although beautiful, although part of him and a memory of his mother… they had always marked him as lesser. And the claws had always marked him as a monster.

She blinked.

"No attempts at flattery?" Rhysand asked drily.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. Then she said something that surprised him, "You have a high-enough opinion of yourself already. I doubt the flattery of a little human matters much to you."

The laugh that escaped his chest was low and small, but real none the less. _Two laughs now, Feyre._ An impressive feat. He could almost hear Morrigan chortling at his expense all the way in Velaris. High opinion of himself indeed… She was wrong though. Her little human opinion mattered more to him than he cared to admit.

Feyre's face heated at the sound of his laugh.

"I can't decide whether I should consider you admirable or very stupid for being so bold with a High Lord."

The blush on her face was fading and a thought was loud in his mind: _Only around him did I have trouble keeping my mouth shut, it seemed._

Rhysand supposed he could say the same about her.

"Do you know the answer to the riddle?" She spit out suddenly.

Rhysand crossed his arms, touching the tattoo across his ribs subtly. She was desperate now. "Cheating, are you?"

"She never said I couldn't ask for help." Clever, darling, Feyre.

"Ah, but after she had you beaten to hell, she ordered us not to help you." His eyes bore into her own. It was true… as soon as she had passed out, it was proclaimed across the throne room.

Rhysand shook his head as Feyre just examined him expectantly. "Even if I felt like helping you, I couldn't. She gives us the order, and we all bow to it." He picked a piece of lint off his tunic.

"It's a good thing she likes me, isn't it?" Shame burned deep in his stomach. Why did it matter now? After all the things he had done, why was admitting them to his human girl almost as painful as doing them?

She opened her mouth, the plead already in her mind.

"Don't waste your breath. I can't tell you – no one here can. If she ordered us to all stop breathing, we would have to obey that, too."

Footsteps were sounding down the hall, and if the heavy breathing was any indication it was Feyre's guards returning to retrieve her.

Feyre looked crestfallen, clutching the poker pathetically with her tattooed hand. The dirt on her face was obscuring her freckles.

Rhysand snapped his fingers and the dirt and ash disappeared from her skin. The lentils disappeared from his fireplace, lining the bucket neatly. "There. A gift- for having the balls to even ask."

She looked at him blankly for a moment, and Rhysand gestured to the bucket. She stared at her hands, noticing that the poker that had been in her hands a moment ago was stowed neatly back on the rack.

The door flew open, and two red-skinned, large-jawed grunts entered his room. They froze as they beheld the High Lord standing by the side of his bed.

Rhysand didn't take his eyes from Feyre as he waved a lazy hand, "She accomplished her task. Take her back."

The guards lunged at her, with intentions of grabbing her by the hair. Before he could stop himself, Rhysand bared his teeth in a barely concealed growl.

The guards froze as he squeezed his claws tightly around their weak minds. "No more household chores, no more tasks." The guards became putty in his control. "Tell the others, too. Stay out of her cell, and don't touch her. If you do, you're to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?"

The glamour mixed with his daemati training, sealing the words into their brains forever. A quick glance through their memories showed no intention of reporting this little chore back to the Queen.

The grunts blinked and nodded.

They looked to Feyre now, waving her forward. She glanced at him once before she left his room, the look on her face filled with… awe? Fear?

He couldn't help but give her a saccharine smile as she walked around of his room. "You're welcome," Rhysand purred after her.

After she left the room, the door slamming closed behind them, Rhysand stood shakily to his feet.

The smell of lilac and pear had infiltrated every part of his bedroom.

This woman was going to be undoing of him.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Review!


	15. Light In The Darkness

Hiya guys!

I bring you an update, with love and cookies and strange humor.

Maybe not the love and cookies part, but most definitely the strange humor.

I know the time line is a little off from the book here... four days passed in the book from the time Feyre was found in Rhys's room and my time line is more like... five days? But ya know what, I'm just betting on the idea that Feyre miscounted? haha.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

Please review. :)

* * *

Four days had passed since Feyre had shown up, digging through his fireplace, looking thin and dirty. Three days had passed since he had glamoured the guards into feeding her real food instead of the usual mush they provided. Two days had passed since she had repeatedly called him an "arrogant, pompous High Lord" in over a hundred various sing-song voices, resulting in him nearly laughing out loud in the throne room as Amarantha tortured a group of lesser fae from Day Court. One day had passed since he had watched slow, sparkling tears slip down her face while she thought of how she could have stopped this long before being trapped beneath the mountain.

He was learning to block it out during important moments by building a wall around the bond tethered to his mind. It was almost painful for him to keep the wall up all the time, but he quickly found it was necessity at least during situations that required his attention. He found that he could keep one mental ear open to her thoughts, paying attention only to key moments when guards arrived or when she cursed aloud at the tattoo.

Oddly, those were some of his favorite moments.

Before he had placed up the barrier, Rhysand had been standing at Amarantha's side as she brought traitors in the Spring Court (a special treat for Tamlin), and found himself fading into Feyre's mind as she spoke aloud guesses for the riddle…

 _A woman?_

 _Jealousy?_

 _Leprosy?_

She was working her way through the most common deadly illnesses of humans, drawing patterns in the dirt with her index finger.

"Distracted, Rhysand?" A deep voice murmured behind him.

He blinked himself back into reality, pushing himself from her mind.

Helion was examining his face with interest, as was the Queen herself from across the dais.

"Hm." Rhysand gave him a lazy smile, "Perhaps I've had a little too much wine."

Amarantha glanced away from him, a small wrinkle between her eyes. She glared down at the traitors below her as the Attor clawed at their faces.

Helion looked at him a moment longer, a frown on his face.

 _Careful._ Helion whispered into the antechamber of his mind, turning his gaze back to the evening's entertainment.

So, from that moment on Rhysand kept a careful shield around that bond, blocking himself out of her mind except for intermittent check-ins and an open ear.

Amarantha had been more subdued than her usual self since the first trial, less bloodthirsty. He wondered if she had sensed the change in atmosphere that had leaked into the cracks of the mountain after Feyre defeated that first trial. She might be cruelest bitch on the planet, but she was no fool.

There had been whispering in the back halls of the mountain, muttered words about Tamlin's powers, about the human girl with starlight eyes and burnished hair.

Rhysand would have been shocked if Amarantha was not aware of it and was bidding her time carefully to successfully crush the newfound spirit infecting her court.

Rhysand shifted his gaze to the four 'traitors', watching at they screamed and writhed in agony, straining against their cuffs. He smiled a smile that to all those who looked would think came from a place of cruelty and malice but-

Hope, something to believe in.

The girl with starlight eyes was glowing brightly even in the darkest parts of the mountain.

He remembered something that his father had said to him as a boy, when he had trembled from the strange power he could not control. Something he had nearly forgotten, something that had been buried under the mountain of emotional rubble his father had left in his wake. His father had been tenacious at best, and as Rhysand grew his father's patience diminished. But, Rhys's earlier memories of his father hadn't always been filled with yelling.

 _Rhysand was hiding in the far corner of his bedroom, his face shoved firmly between his legs, his forearm covering his eyes._

 _His father had heard him screaming and come to investigate only to find him curled up in terror, surrounded by the darkness of Rhysand's nightmares. He had said nothing at first, inhaling the darkness like a breath of fresh air. When Rhysand had looked up to see the shadows were gone, he had hidden his face in shame, his sobs breaking anew._

" _Rhys." His father spoke softly, so different than his usual tone._

 _Rhysand didn't move, keeping his face covered._

" _Rhys. Come here. I want to show you something."_

 _Rhysand peaked out from under his arms to see his father's handsome face staring down at him. He had stubble on his chin, his cloths rumpled. Dark circles ringed around his deep blue eyes. Unusual for him._

 _He held out a hand for the cowering boy on the floor._

 _Rhys took his father's hand, only to be pulled up into his father's arms, his wings hanging uselessly from his back. Something his mother would have slapped him for._

 _Rhys hid his face in his father's shirt, subtlety wiping the streaks of tears from his face onto his father's tunic. His father was warm, smelling of morning dew and a summer night's breeze._

 _He walked out to the balcony connected to Rhysand's room at the moonstone palace, which overlooked a snow-covered mountain range. Pale blue strips of fabric whipped in the wind; the cool air magically warmed by the palace wards to be a comfortable temperature. His father carried him to a bench that gave a beautiful view of the valley, setting Rhysand gently down on his lap so that he could see over the railing._

 _Rhysand looked up from his father's chest, glancing around them. The balcony, although familiar did not feel like home. Just like his bedroom in the palace in the sky had never felt like home. Not the way the house in Velaris did, the one his mother loved so much. His mother and father were fighting currently, an occurrence that seemed more and more common despite the growing child in his mother's belly. And when his parents fought Rhysand had to stay at the moonstone palace… a place of neutrality. At least in his father's mind._

" _What did you want to show me, father?" Rhysand spoke quietly, his voice still hoarse._

" _Look. Tell me what you see." His father nodded over the railing. The gold surrounding the braids on his head clinked together as he gestured._

" _I see… mountains. And snow."_

" _And?" His father murmured._

 _Rhysand sat up, straightening his wings. He narrowed his eyes as he looked over the impressive view._

" _There are a few trees at the bottom of the valley. And a frozen river."_

 _His father said nothing._

" _I think I see a bear out there, father." Rhysand stretched his mind out over the expanse. Wildlife had always interested him, even from a young age. He enjoyed learning the way their mind worked._

" _That's definitely a bear!" He exclaimed, a grin spreading over his tear streaked face._

 _His father gave a low chuckle. "Look in the sky, Rhysand. Look up. What do you see?"_

 _Rhysand looked away from the tiny bear, and the snow-capped mountains, turning his attention to the sky._

" _I see… a moonless sky. And the reflection of the snow off the gases in the sky, right, father?" Rhysand looked to him for approval._

" _What else do you see?"_

 _Rhysand looked to the sky in annoyance now. "Clouds. And the sky. And… stars. I see lots of stars, father."_

 _His father squeezed his arms. "Good! And do we see stars during the daytime?"_

" _No. Of course not." Rhysand frowned at him._

" _Exactly. Remember Rhysand, whenever you are in dark and scary place, when it feels like you have no way out of the darkness… remember, stars can only be seen in the darkness." His father turned him on his lap, so Rhysand was looking him in the eye._

" _When it's storming or cloudy, what does you mother tell you to do when you are flying?"_

" _To fly above the clouds."_

" _And can you see the stars from above the clouds?"_

 _Rhysand thought for a moment, and then nodded._

" _Exactly, son. Even when it's dark, or when it's stormy and you can't see the stars… remember. They are always there. The Mother created them just as much as she created you and me, and while the darkness is a part of you, remember that the stars are just as much as a part of you too."_

" _Why are you telling me about the stars, father?" Rhysand asked, curious._

" _Because I fear that there are dark times coming for us, son. And the stars have been my friends for as long as I can remember… they were always there for me, even in the darkness. They have always been there for your mother as well, although she doesn't know it." His father gave a wiry smile._

" _The Mother created them for a reason, just as we were all created for a reason although we don't always know what that reason is." He shifted his gaze to the night sky. "The stars were created to remind us, Rhysand. They remind us that it is only in darkness that we can fully appreciate the light."_

 _Rhysand looked up at the stars for a moment, trying to the find the biggest and most beautiful star._

" _You can even make your own stars, Rhysand."_

" _I can?" Rhysand asked, curiously._

" _Yes. Hold out your hand." His father cupped his large hand under Rhysand's own smaller._

" _Good. Now, think of the most marvelous star you have ever seen. Think about it and nothing else… then push it into existence."_

 _Rhysand squeezed his eyes closed tight, thinking of the biggest star he'd ever seen. He focused and focused then-_

" _Open your eyes." His father spoke in his ear._

 _When Rhysand looked at his hand being supported by his fathers, his eyes grew wide… between it was a glowing orb, beautiful and gleaming. Ethereal beauty leaked from every piece of it._

" _Wow!" Rhysand gasped._

" _See?" His father pushed their hands into the air, blowing a soft night wind to pick up the star, pulling it farther and farther into the sky. It rose until it glowed among the rest of the stars in the sky, albeit not as big and beautiful as Rhysand had imagined it._

" _Remember, Rhysand. I will not always be there to pull the darkness away. When you are trapped in the dark, in the shadows, look for the stars. And if there are no stars to be seen… make some." He smiled, nodding in the direction of the sky. "Stars, like hope, can always been found by those who are looking for them. Sometimes you just have to make your own. Especially if you're the High Lord of the Night Court." He winked at Rhys._

Rhysand returned from his memory, the small smile real as he looked over the faeries that Amarantha was needlessly torturing… Yes, this was horrible and every bit against every single moral part of his soul.

But when he glanced around the room, he saw evidence of his own star reflecting in the eyes of Amarantha's court. Yes, hope could always be found by those who looked for it. And if not… it could be made.

He guessed he just had been forgetting to look.

* * *

The spring had seeped into summer, an event Rhysand had been ignorant of until Amarantha began planning her Midsummer Ball. When flowers and summer wine began emerging throughout the throne room and halls of Amarantha's court, Rhysand had been confused. It could have been because Feyre was currently calling him about every name she could think of at that moment- something that was amusing him to no end and kept him thoroughly distracted.

He was trying to pick his favorite insult, but it seemed like each string of words was better and better… Although, 'pig-faced batman' was an insult after his own heart.

It was funny, Rhysand was perhaps more alone than ever, rarely seeing his wraiths or even Amarantha, but Rhysand felt the least isolated he had in half a century. Amarantha seemed to be holding him at arm's length, although their nightly coupling continued, she rarely asked for his daemati services. Tamlin was impassive, brooding and silent. Helion seemed to be suspicious of him and avoided him except for brief moments in the throne room. The Lady of Autumn Court had never again mentioned the debt owed to the human woman, or why Rhysand knew she needed assistance.

Perhaps he was not the only one playing games.

But, with things seeming inexplicably calm, Rhysand was debating on introducing his bargain during the Midsummer Ball. Amarantha was sure to have something planned, if not for his Feyre then for another suffering member of her court. When he had healed her, bargain or not, he had made it obvious that he was rooting for her. That he expected her to win… And the only thing that might keep Amarantha from killing him instantly would be if she suspected it was some tactic for torture Tamlin by enslaving his human lover. It would only work if Amarantha thought he did it not only to save her, but to play some game with Tamlin. It was a gamble though, Amarantha might just decide to kill him as soon as he revealed his secret regardless. He was betting on the fact that he was nearly indispensable to her with his skill as a daemati and as a lover.

For the night leading up to the ball, Rhysand stewed in his bed, staring at the black canvas covering his four-poster bed. Thinking. His back had finally healed, and he had been able to focus his full attention on tempting Amarantha even as she tortured Tamlin.

He had made his plan but… it was horrible. Even after all the things he had done for Amarantha, for his court, it was horrible.

Feyre was safe in her cell for now, although alone and perhaps going a bit stir-crazy if her name-calling antics showed an example of her mental state. Rhysand had to be strategic on revealing the bargain if he wanted her to remain safe night after night. He had to make her his own, without crossing a line with Tamlin, or crossing a line with Amarantha... either way could get them both killed.

So, he made his plan, hating himself all the moment but… he had endured. She would have to endure as well.

Faerie wine… particularly Amarantha's favorite red wine was known for its amnesic qualities when given to humans. Perhaps he could use it to help relieve the misery.

Rhysand swallowed as he thought this traitorous thought. _Drugging her?_ The thought of that betrayal, that line being crossed was burning a hole into his stomach.

He had to stay cruel, unyielding. The cruelest High Lord, the dark prince. No matter what he felt for the girl, he could not stop now. If Amarantha suspected this was more than just a little game for him, that he actually _cared_ for her… well. There would be no stopping what Amarantha would do to her, trial or no trial.

 _Wraith._ He searched for their minds, finding them surprisingly just down the hall from his bedroom.

 _Yes, High Lord?_ The thought was short, distracted by something.

 _I think it is time we revealed our bargain. Tomorrow. At Midsummer Ball._ Rhysand scowled at the ceiling, self-loathing warming his face now.

 _How?_

Rhysand did not think back concretely but instead, he showed them a vision. The abyss of their minds recoiled at the picture.

 _Are you sure?_

Rhysand dug his palms into his eye sockets.

 _Of course not, but I think it is my wisest move. She may hate me, forever, but… it will claim her as mine. And disguise my intentions._ His thoughts were sharp, a desperate edge to it.

The minds remained connected to his for another moment, revealing none of their thoughts before disconnecting from him completely.

Well. That showed enough what his wraiths thought of his plan.

Absurd. This whole plan was a terrible idea… and yet. He couldn't see a way out of it. If this was the price he had to pay to save her, to save them all, he would pay it again ten forth.

* * *

The morning of the Midsummer Ball, Rhysand was a mess. He had nearly worn a hole into the carpet in front of his fireplace from his pacing, thinking and scheming and trying to plan desperately any way that he could do this without… what he was going to do that night.

But, no matter how he thought it, no matter how he planned it no better plan existed for revealing the bargain to Amarantha. No better explanation could be given for saving that human girl, without making it look like he was intentionally trying to help her win.

After hours of turmoil and brooding, Rhysand had finally given up, throwing himself in his chair while clutching a glass of his best Winter Court whiskey.

He did not jump or flinch when the wraiths appeared on either side of his fireplace. He did not look away as their gazes burned holes into his face. They hadn't look at him this way when he had killed those children in the Winter Court, but now, the accusing stares said more than words.

 _There. Is. No. Other. Way._ His thoughts were a growl even to him, and he slouched lower into his chair.

They said nothing but looked at each other for a moment. Then, Nuala strolled forward, the light from the fireplace shining through her form as she procured a dress from thin air.

 _What do you think?_ Her thoughts were deathly quiet.

He glanced over the dress, his stomach clenching. A harlot's dress, beautiful, gauzy and white flowed in two even strips to the floor. It was beautiful, although her breasts would not even be covered by the fabric. But… at each shoulder sat two golden brooches in the shape of stars. He recognized the pieces as those from his mother's own collection. There were two brooches as his mother had one made for both her and Livana. And Cerridwan moved forward from her perch by the fireplace, holding a small diadem in her hand. It was dainty and golden with a beautiful stone of lapis lazuli gleaming from its frame.

Rhysand's mother had made _that_ particular piece for a collection dedicated to his future bride, whoever she may have been.

" _No one is to touch these except for the girl that is the light in your darkness, Rhys. Do you understand me?_ " _His mother voice resounded through his mind._

Rhysand swallowed the lump in his throat. He swore he could almost feel his mother's hand brushing across his cheek fondly.

He stared at the ensemble, the collection of vulgarity and beauty gathered in their hands.

 _Is it too much?_ Cerridwan thought after a moment.

He knew his face was devastating.

 _No. No. It's perfect._

They sat in silence, watching the firelight sparkle from the jewelry.

 _Are you ready?_ Nuala finally asked.

 _No. But I will be._

The wraiths looked at him a moment longer, waiting.

 _You can collect her when you notice the crowds heading to the throne room. I will be ready._

 _Will you need assistance getting ready?_ Cerridwan asked, her thoughts kind.

He knew she was really asking if he needed someone with him, to help him put on that High Lord's mask.

 _No. Thank you, wraiths._

* * *

Rhysand had dressed in his best black tunic, the silver and gold accent gleaming under the faelight of his bathroom. He was now staring at himself, trying to gain some control of the torrent of emotions creeping under his flesh. Self-hatred, misery, and such undying, burning shame seethed under his skin, through his mind. It was burning up his organs, his lungs, and creeping up his throat. He feared that if he opened his mouth his own self-hatred might just explode into the mass of misery it was, devouring his soul and body alike. No, he didn't have time for his messy conscious to be peaking through his stone exterior.

Mor. Azriel. Cassian. Amren. Velaris. Velaris. _His people._

They needed him to get his shit together. He gripped the sink, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to remember how their faces had looked. He tried to remember the Rainbow, the House of Wind. The way the snow had glowed in the moonlight on the Illyrian mountain range.

 _Fuck._

He took a shuttering breath, before opening his eyes to look at himself through slitted eyes.

 _Stand straight. Pompous, cocky. Mysterious. Seductive._

 _Breath._

And he did.

Rhysand breathed in the musky air of his bathroom until his breath was no longer shaking. Until that shame, and misery and hatred were sealed off until a corner of himself that couldn't be accessed unless he willed it.

 _Unyielding. Cruel._

 _Night Triumphant._

He strolled out of his bedroom, plucking a stray piece of link from the shoulder of his tunic as he did. As he reached his bedroom door, he felt some whirlpool of a mind touch his own.

 _She's nearly ready._ The thought was breathy.

 _Good. I'll be there momentarily._

Rhysand took a moment to seal himself, brushing his fingers across his ribs once to get some guise of what he was coming into. The pool of embarrassment and rage was like a punch in the stomach.

 _Right._ Here goes nothing.

He reached her door, no one having even noticed the shadow that had slid across the floor of the mountain passages, sliding even through doors.

He could hear the pattering of her human heart, almost smell her from outside of the door, although the scent of soap and paint was mixing strongly with her natural scent.

"Let me go! I demand to be dressed in something else!" Her voice was high, enraged. "Let go of me-"

Rhysand slid directly through the wooden door, ripping his shadows from his form as he took in the scene.

Feyre was trying to rip the gown from her form, her fist balled up the gauzy material while Nuala and Cerridwan desperately tried to keep a hold of her, keep her dressed and keep from hurting her. Nuala was standing behind her, trying to pull her arms behind her back and Cerridwan was desperately patting her face with one hand while trying to extract the thin material from her grasp. Feyre was nearly naked, the shift pulled to the side, exposing the whole of her bottom to the world.

"I wouldn't do that," Rhysand murmured from his spot by the door, crossing his arms across his chest, his fingers pressed against that tattoos only he knew he had.

Feyre turned to him, her blue-grey eyes glaring into his own, her nose wrinkled in irritation and her freckles more visible than usual due to the paleness of her skin. From shoulders up, she looked like a Queen. Not like that mockery of a Queen several floors above them, but a true Queen. The kind that made her subjects fall to their knees under the weight of her gaze. Her golden-brown hair had been pulled back to coil around the golden diadem, the lapis lazuli bringing out the bluish tone of her eyes. The bottom part of her hair fell down her back in loosely spun curls, half flipped over her left shoulder as she whipped her head to him. Her eyes had been amplified with kohl, the gold shadow on her eye lids bringing out the golden tones of her hair.

From shoulder down… her pale skin had been painted with a dark navy paint, the paint used on Illyrian children to detect whether they had been touched while sparring. The whirling pattern blended beautifully with the dark ink of her tattoo and peaked through the almost sheer white dress. The gossamer had been gathered at either shoulder with the golden-star brooches, gathering the fabric in bunches that flowed down her form to barely cover her breasts. In fact, her breasts were fully visible underneath her gown, the peaks of them poking through the fabric in the chilled air. The fabric continued down her stomach to be gathered at her waist by a jeweled belt, an addition that Rhys recognized again from his 'betrothed' collection. The pale fabric covered her other more private part, but even with her not pulling forcefully at the fabric her buttocks were almost fully exposed.

"Our bargain hasn't started yet," she snapped at him, her rage spreading a beautiful rouge across her nose and cheeks.

She was beautiful, but… this is never what Rhysand had wanted.

"Ah, but I need an escort for the party." He managed to murmur smoothly, "And when I thought of you squatting in that cell all night, alone…"

He nodded subtlety to the wraiths who stood behind her, the pressure of their gazes on his face becoming unbearable. He waved a hand, and they walked through the door behind him.

Feyre stared after them as they disappeared, jumping slightly when they walked through the wood without opening it.

He chuckled darkly at the expression on her face, "You look just as I hoped you would." The truth of his words ached in his chest.

Feyre thought of Tamlin whispering similar words in her ear, and the self-hatred licked at his stomach for a moment before he could push it back down. "Is this necessary?" She gestured to her clothing, the paint. The red hue of her blush was a permanent fixture on her face now.

"Of course. How else would I know if anyone touches you?" He approached her slowly, letting her brace herself as he gently touched her shoulder, smearing the paint. "The dress itself won't mar it, and neither will your movements." His breath caught in his throat as he heard her heart accelerating as he approached her. The paint shifted back into its original form, making her eyes widen as she examined it.

"And I'll remember precisely where my hands have been. But if anyone else touches you- let's say a certain High Lord who enjoys springtime- I'll know." _And so will everyone else. So don't be stupid._ He flicked her nose once, leaning in close to hear ear, "And Feyre, I don't like my belongings tampered with."

Feyre swallowed hard, regret panging sharply down that bond.

She stared at him a moment, her chin stayed high in defiance but her eyes showed her apprehension.

He backed away from her, steeling himself. "Come," he waved a hand, not bothering to offer her his arm. She wouldn't take it. "We're running late."

She followed him out of the room, down the hall as he headed briskly towards the throne room. It would be noticed if he was late to the party, but he had to arrive when Amarantha's court was curious by his lack of presence, but not so late to arise suspicion. It wouldn't be ideal to be dragged before Amarantha as if he was trying to do something as foolish as attempt escape… not with the painted, human girl at his side.

No, Rhysand wanted a semblance of control tonight.

Feyre padded down the hall behind him, her arms crossed across her chest as she attempted to cover up her breasts, trembling slightly. From trepidation or from the cool temperature, he wasn't sure, but he suspected a combination of both. She had her jaw clenched tightly, and she stared at the floor until they approached the stoned doors that lead to the main throne room.

She looked up in panic as Rhysand threw open the doors with a dark whip of his magic. Rhysand had a smug smile across his lips as he waited for her to enter behind him.

 _What has he done to her?_

 _The whore has made himself a whore… how fitting._

 _The whore and the slut…_

 _What? Look at her!_

The lesser and High fae alike gasped at him as they made their way across the room, in the direction of Amarantha's throne. A couple of the lesser fae bowed at him mockingly, apparently in reverence to the unprecedented display of cruelty. Three of the Autumn Court's spawn gathered nearby the dais, staring at Feyre like she was feast and they were starving men. Rhysand slowed his walk slightly as he noted them, his smile growing wider as they noticed his gaze.

 _Mine. She's mine._ He wanted to project his thoughts to them, to claim her but… the paint, the outfit was doing enough talking for him.

Feyre's shame was pulsing against his ribs, against his mind, but he ignored it. Cruel. Unyielding. Controlling. Whispers were spreading through the crowd as they noted who Amarantha's whore had brought to the Midsummer Ball, even the music growing quieter as the musician's grew distracted.

 _She has a crown on… what a fool._

But Feyre padded on beside him, even as they approached Amarantha's dais. Even as she turned to face her lover.

When Rhysand stopped, sketching a bow to the Red Queen, Feyre stood beside him, her chin in the air, her diadem glimmering in the faelight. _I'd beaten her first task. I'd beaten her menial chores. I could keep my head high._ Feyre's thoughts were infiltrating his mind, even through the shield surrounding the bargain.

Rhysand could have kissed her right there in front of everyone but instead he smiled widely at Amarantha. "Merry Midsummer." Then, he turned his gaze briefly at Tamlin, the hurricane of pure, undulating fury slapping him in the face. Tamlin was a man of stone, his face completely impassive but… he was gripping his little throne with white-knuckled hands. Rhysand's grin widened farther as he turned back to Amarantha.

She was dressed in a gown of lavender and deep purple, long sleeved and clashing terribly with that red hair of hers. She smiled at Rhysand, "What have you done with my captive?" Her smile was more like a grimace, and the fury seeping from her mixed beautifully with Tamlin's.

Feyre was burning behind him, her thoughts screaming into Rhysand's mind. _I did it for you, I did it for you, I did it for you…_ She was screaming internally at Tamlin.

Rhysand shoved her out of his mind this time, his grin marginally smaller. "We made a bargain." Those words echoed now through the throne room, and Rhysand approached Feyre slowly, smiling cruelly at the couple as he brushed a lock of hair behind Feyre's ear. A small, possessive gesture. Tamlin burned. Honestly, Rhysand was surprised that Tamlin hadn't turned into a living bonfire… perhaps if he would have had Beron's particular set of gifts. Rhysand caressed her face as his violet eyes bore into Tamlin's emerald, "One week with me at the Night Court every month in exchange for my healing services after her first task."

He grabbed her left arm, lifting it in front of her for all to see, shifting his gaze back to Amarantha who looked like she might bite someone. "For the rest of her life."

Two beats passed as Amarantha processed his words, the implication.

She straightened, then turned her eyes to Feyre. Rhysand noticed Jurian's eye swirl to examine her as well.

 _He thought I was going to beat her tasks._ Feyre's thought shattered through that barrier again.

While Amarantha, Tamlin, Jurian, the entire room sized up Feyre… sized up whether she would beat the Queen's tasks, Feyre had turned to look at him. He didn't look away from Amarantha, that smirking smile on his lips.

 _Rhysand likes to play games…_

Yes, Feyre. Games were his specialty. And he didn't like losing.

Rhysand stared into Amarantha's dark eyes, wishing more than ever that he could break through that impenetrable fortress of a mind she possessed. _Don't kill me, don't kill me, don't kill me._ Rhysand was praying to the Cauldron, the mother, and perhaps even the long forgotten human god.

"Enjoy my party." Amarantha replied finally, shifting back into a nonchalant posture. She lifted a single hand to toy with her bone necklace, a gesture Rhysand often noted when she was thinking.

Rhysand bowed again, shifting his gaze to Tamlin as he bowed, then stood, placing a gentle hand on the small of Feyre's back to lead her away from the throne.

Tamlin was focusing every inch of his willpower into not transforming to full beast in front of them all. Rhysand chuckled once under his breath. Tamlin's rage almost made this whole thing worth it… almost.

Feyre stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone as she kept her head up. _I won't let them know my weakness, I won't let them know how it bothers me so…_ She was thinking to herself.

This was working out better than he expected. The crowd, while hating him, or even jealous of him… they were sizing her up too. And when they looked her over, they didn't see a broken human girl.

They saw a Queen, a Queen proud of her accomplishments. They saw a woman who was ready for the next challenge. They saw a woman, who despite the torture that Rhysand forced her through would not be broken. They saw a woman who had given up everything to save the love of her life. They saw a woman who might just save them all.

Now, Rhysand just had to keep from breaking her… while keeping Amarantha at bay and Tamlin furious.

This was going to suck.

He led her to a table heavy with Midsummer food, the faeries surrounding the table quickly scattering as he approached. Nothing new to him, but he saw Feyre's eyebrows raise as he cleared the general area.

That's what fear will do for you.

He poured himself a glass of wine before pulling another goblet forward. Feyre watched him, her breath even and calm even as she was the sheep in a wolf's den. The music was growing louder around them as Amarantha had waved her hand at the musician's before settling on her throne next to Tamlin. She was seething, looking nonchalantly at Jurian's ring. Probably thinking of how Feyre's eye would look on a ring next to it.

He poured Feyre a glass of wine, turning to offer it to her. "Wine?"

She looked at the wine, then back at him, shaking her head firmly.

 _Smart girl._ He smiled, a forced gesture, and offered her the goblet again. He wrapped her talons gently around her mind. "Drink. You'll need it."

 _Drink… drink…_ Feyre's fingers stirred even as she fought his control. "No." She managed to gasp out.

A few lesser fae picts snorted nearby as she struggled against his control.

"Drink." He ordered again, his heart clenching as she glared at him with hatred. Her fingers grasped the goblet delicately, and she tipped back the drink, gulping it down in three large mouthfuls. When her fingers dropped the goblet to the ground, it splattered a few red drops of wine on her white shift.

Rhysand frowned, aware of the hundreds of eyes on them. "Well, that won't do." He snapped his fingers, and the drops of wine disappeared. Feyre gripped the table laden with food for balance with one hand while another hand came up to touch her forehead, "Oh…," she muttered, her eyes slightly unfocused.

Faerie wine, particularly, deep burgundy faerie wine was fermented with a particular type of grape that made human act… differently. Disregarding the effects on their memory, the most important effect in Rhysand's opinion if she was to survive this new-found torture, it had an extreme effect on inhibition and reticence… much as the normal effects of human alcohols, but significantly more extreme.

Its use for her memory was particularly one of the main reasons Rhysand wanted her painted. Not only for his own piece of mind but also… for her own protection. Rhysand would know instantly if someone touched her other than himself. He had forgot to mention to Feyre that the magic in the paint was set to notify him anytime someone marred the paint on her body. Other than Rhysand of course.

Feyre stumbled forward a moment and Rhysand quickly grabbed her before she could fall into the table laden with food. She was pressed against him, her barely covered breasts against his chest, but he had managed to catch her by her waist only and then straightened her out. This was certainly not how he had imagined her pressed against him.

He may be a cruel bastard, but he didn't _want_ to be a monster.

Rhysand smiled grimly at her as she let her head lull back, "It's all so marvelous… even in the dark…" She was muttered to herself, staring up at the faelight.

Rhysand let a dark chuckle out, pulling her towards the dance floor, "Darling, look at me." Feyre turned her gaze to his own. "Shall we dance?"

Feyre nodded dumbly, her balance pushing her body into his own. "Just follow my lead, dear Feyre." Rhysand controlled her mind then, making her dance against him to that off-kilter music. She was difficult to control even with him pushing her muscles the way they needed to go… the faerie wine made thinks particularly difficult. After a few moments, he could control her hips, pushing them against his own.

And so it went on… Rhysand used her. He controlled her, making her dance for him, against him, only with him. His eyes would occasionally glance over to examine Tamlin on his throne, and while no inkling of his misery and hatred had appeared, the rage the shimmered beneath the surface could have burned down a city.

When Feyre's body was exhausted, her bare feet rubbed raw against the stone floor, Rhysand had headed to his burgundy couch, pulling Feyre onto his lap, his hands very careful to be only her waist, brushing against her shoulders.

His usual girls approached him then, and he smiled at them as Feyre lulled against him, her head swimming. Once, when she looked like she was going to be ill, he had pulled her to the back of the room, using his powers to check her health. But no… she was alright, just very, very, drunk on faerie wine. Amarantha and Tamlin watched him the entirety of the night.

He could feel his wraiths hiding in the back of the room, watching him as he dragged that beautiful, innocent human woman with him across the throne room.

She was on Rhysand's lap again when she had finally passed out from a mixture of exhaustion and intoxication, and Rhysand did another quick examination over her using his magic. When the other faeries had taken notice of her prone form hanging over the edge of his burgundy couch, he had laughed with the rest of them at the way her head lulled back, at the way her dress had ridden to the side as she slid off his lap to the couch next to him.

Eventually, he gestured to a pair of guards next to the entrance and they approached his couch.

Rhysand stood, pulling Feyre up like a rag doll, depositing her into their arms.

"Return her to her cell." He ordered them, his voice a caress. He leaned forward, towering over the two snout-nosed guards, "And do not touch her. Do not harm her. I can assure you, I will know. And I do not like my possessions toyed with." His voice had ended with a growl, and he knew that his corona of darkness was sucking the light from the room.

The guards nodded at him, their eyes wide with fear as the High Lord smiled down at them.

They pulled Feyre out the door, her head lulled forward and feet dragging on the floor as the throne room's stone doors closed shut behind them.

Well. If that wasn't a message to the rest of Amarantha' court, Rhysand didn't know what was.

Amarantha was watching him with dark eyes from her throne, and Tamlin was staring at the stone doors, his face comically impassive.

Rhysand walked to the nearest table, grabbing another glass of wine and swallowing it in several gulps. He flicked a piece of lint off his tunic.

Then, he grabbed a beautiful green-skinned female nearby, pulling her close by the waist. "Hello, beautiful. Care for a dance?"

She squirmed for a minute, but after staring into his eyes for a moment, melted into his arms. "A dance would be nice."

As Rhysand swirled his new date around the room, he could feel all eyes on him.

Rhysand had done some terrible things for Amarantha, killed innocent children, tortured and killed innocent humans and faeries alike… but somehow, the weight of his crimes was heavier than ever before tonight.

He supposed he should get used to the feeling. Tonight was only the first of many in which he would parade Feyre around the court room.

There was always a price, and that price demanded to be paid.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed. I was soooo tempted during the father/son scene to have a mini-Lion King moment... like "Everything the darkness touches is our Kingdom..."

Ahh. Maybe a little OOC but ya know...

Review! Thanks for reading.


	16. A Darkness Lurks

Hi everyone. I am so, so, so, so sorry that I haven't posted in a long time. I would say that I just have been extremely busy, but that would be a lie. To be completely honest with you, I was letting the bad days win for a long time and felt... unable to write. But thankfully, I am now starting to feel more like myself. Depression is a difficult beast to tame.

I still plan on seeing this story out, in fact, I am excited to write the end of ACOTAR.

To those that leave reviews I would appreciate your input on how you would like me to continue into ACOMAF. I could continue their love story into ACOMAF, ending somewhere in the middle of the book in this story, or I could do the entire book from Rhysand's POV, starting a new story. What do you guys think?

Thank you so much for coming back to Rhysand's story.

As usual, please leave a review I would love to know what you think.

Love, TurtleSteed :)

* * *

When that night finally slowed to a dull grind, Amarantha stood, her dress flaring out behind her like the fronds of a palm tree. Tamlin stood as well, his stony gaze focusing only on her bare back as she made her way out of the throne room with a lazy wave to her court. Rhysand, who had lounging on the couch and impatiently waiting for this 'Midsummer Ball' to be over, gently kissed the hand of the golden-haired faerie at his side before sauntering out behind the couple. As he left the throne room more than a few stares, glaring and amused alike, burned into the back of his best tunic.

As they strolled down the dark hallway, faeries hurried out of their way until just the pathetic trio remained. Their footsteps echoed down the hall in front of them, their shadows creeping along the hallway behind them, flickering softly in the faelight. Amarantha was stiff, not bothering to glance back at either of them, her heels clicking perhaps a little more loudly than what as necessary.

They approached her bedroom as they did every other night, and Rhysand hoped that his use would be enough to save him. He hoped that Amarantha saw this as no more than a game, a way to play with Tamlin.

He knew he would deserve any death, any form of torture she gave him, but he prayed that Amarantha would read into his trick. Feyre… humiliated, vulnerable as she was, needed him to be alive. His court, his dreamers needed his wards to stay intact. They just needed to survive Amarantha's tasks.

He followed the mismatched couple into the room, the heavy wooden door closing behind him with a soft thud. Tamlin settled into the armchair in front of the fireplace, his face blank and careful. Behind the hedges of his mind, Rhysand could feel his seething rage like a warmth on his face. Amarantha walked to a table on which a darkened decanter sat, pouring herself a glass of honey colored liquid before turning to stare at Rhysand.

Her dark eyes burned over his face as she took a small sip from her glass, tilting her head back in a predatory gaze. Rhysand knew better than to smirk at her, but he let his eyes slip over the shape of her body sheathed in that ridiculous dress. Hoping to remind her of that _need_ for him he had been using for so long.

Amarantha pursed her ruby lips, setting her glass down and began to take the pins out of her burning hair.

He watched her slowly remove every single pin from her hair. Then he watched as she shook her hair with those clawed hands. She slipped her feet out of her heels and approached him slowly, a small frown on her lips.

Tamlin began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, his emerald eyes staring into the fire. _Get on with it._ Rhysand could read his thoughts without thinking.

She stood before him, so small for someone so wicked, so cruel… She reached a clawed hand up, her nails a candy-apple red. She brushed her fingers over his jaw, pulling his face so until they stood only inches apart. She smelled like spice and fear and everything he hated.

"What are you doing, pet?" Amarantha breathed, her voice soft, caressing. With her black eyes so close to his face, her pale skin and burgundy hair she looked like an angry ghost. A devil.

At this, Rhysand only gave her a secretive smile, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at her. She was pulling on his power subtly, probably hoping he wouldn't notice. He shoved down the instinct to step away from her.

"It seems to me that I am standing in the bedroom of a beautiful female, wondering why she is still dressed."

Tamlin shifted uncomfortably. Rhysand heard the snort he suppressed in his thoughts.

She brushed her fingers down his jaw, over his neck until they were pressed against his chest. A moment passed in which Rhysand held his breath, trying to keep her spiced scent out of his mouth.

Amarantha balled up his favorite tunic in her grip, tugging him forward until they were almost nose to nose.

Her teeth were clenched in a growl, so low even his fae senses could barely hear it.

"I think you know that is not what I am asking, you foolish halfbreed."

Rhysand blinked once at her slowly, the wrath swirling up from a cruel, aching part of his consciousness, demanding retribution, demanding punishment. _Halfbreed._ He could take _whore_ , he could take _cruel prince_ , but _halfbreed…_

The part of him that was not pure fae, the part that he had gotten from his mother, had always been a blessing as well as a curse.

Rhysand shoved that wrath deep down into his stomach before it could surface and blew an exasperated breath across Amarantha's face, knowing that she would scent him. He leaned forward, brushing her hair off her shoulder, tracing her shoulder and neck with his nose until his lips were only inches from her ear.

"If you are referring to my new plaything, I am doing exactly what you think I am doing. _Playing._ " Rhysand gave a small smile, his voice deathly low as his lips brushed the shell of her ear. He felt the shiver that slipped down her body.

Amarantha loosened her grip on his tunic, sliding her hands across his chest, his shoulders.

"I did not give you authorization to _play_ with my human girl." Her voice was a hiss but had lost its solidity.

"Ah, but since the terms of _your bargain_ ," his tongue brushed against her earlobe, "state that you cannot run the girl ragged with your tasks…" his voice trailed off as Amarantha curved her neck away from his, giving him better access to her neck.

Rhysand tried not to gag as he brushed his lips across the delicate curve of her neck, wishing he could sink his teeth in and rip her jugular out. " _My bargain_ , on the other hand, stated nothing of the sort."

Amarantha stiffened slightly, and he felt the swell of rage that split through Tamlin at the mention of his bargain. He laughed softly against her skin, his tongue sneaking down her shoulder now. "What did you think of the tattoo on her left arm, Tamlin? Do you think it suits her?"

Rhysand's midnight gaze met Tamlin's own from across the room. Tamlin remained in the armchair but since Amarantha had her gaze turned away from his, he let some of his rage out in a pure, feral look of aggression. "Hmm…" Rhysand was kissing down her arm, and Amarantha was watching him out of the side of her eye, even as the desire inched its way across her face. "What about the paint, Tamlin? I've painted even her most intimate parts. Of course, the paints show everyone _exactly_ where she has been touched. Perhaps you would do well to remember that."

Tamlin, of course, said nothing even if the look on his face could have set the room on fire. Amarantha watched Rhysand silently until his lips reached her hand. As he gripped her wrist in his own hand, holding it up so that his lips could brush against the claws on the end of her fingers, she gripped his jaw between her fingers.

He looked away from Tamlin, meeting Amarantha's gaze, a look of innocence across his own face.

"Do what you want with her, Rhysand. You are a useful servant, and I will allow this indulgence. However," her grip became painful, her nails drawing blood, "there is something that you will understand. She is _mine_ to break. _Mine alone,"_ she hissed.

Rhysand swallowed once, pretending some semblance of fear. "Yes, Your Majesty. I would never dream of breaking her."

She released his jaw, and he returned to his nightly duties, slowly unzipping her dress. As Tamlin stared at Rhysand, forced to watch, but never to watch her, something close to agony slipped across his eyes. It was so quick that Rhysand thought he might have been seeing things.

He probed Tamlin's mind gently slipping through his shields, distracting himself from the feel of Amarantha's skin on his own. As he dipped into Tamlin's mind he felt more than a few competing emotions: Agony. Defeat. Regret. Anger.

Somethings they could all relate to these days.

* * *

The night had slipped past as far as Rhysand could tell as he walked back to his own rooms. Walked, didn't winnow because _cauldron_ , that woman had been needy tonight. His power was only a thin inch of water at the bottom as his well, his power constantly being drawn on by the wards, the effect on thousands of memories…

Her scent was all over him and his face, although healed from where her claws had drawn blood from him, was aching. With his power so low his healing was less than adequate.

As he approached his own door, he gripped the curved doorknob to enter the room, using a droplet of his power to unlock the door he was suddenly aware that someone was inside. He paused, his grip still on that doorknob and sent out tendrils of his magic to find what could be found. His wraiths, no where to been seen, had not warned him and the intruder wards that let him know someone had entered his private room had not alarmed. In fact, they had been _disabled._ Cleaved, as though they never existed at all. His wards existed to simply warn him, he was not foolish enough to leave any evidence of his true purposes but… his wards had never been disabled before.

 _Helion?_ The spell-cleaver? But, no… Lucien. It was Lucien. He could smell his autumn scent. Interesting.

Rhysand unleashed some of his superficial power, letting the night pool around him. He forced a small smile on his lips. Then, he crossed his arms, throwing the door open with his power.

The door slammed hard against the wall, and Lucien, who was _lounging_ in his favorite armchair by the fire, shot to his feet. His golden fox mask was glimmering in the firelight, the scar across the left side of his face brutal and deep in the dim light. He had his hair pulled up with a leather band, and his tunic was simple. His eyes were wide at Rhysand's sudden arrival, but he relaxed and crossed his arms as Rhysand kicked the reeling door closed behind him, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Rhysand focused all the power of his gaze on Lucien's own, that golden eye whirling around the room. Looking for a trap.

"You're a brave one, aren't you, young Lucien." Rhysand clicked his tongue, slowly approaching Lucien with a predatory walk. When they stood only a few feet apart, he stopped, tilting his head in an intense gaze. Lucien said nothing.

"It is a rare event that someone enters my room without my expressed permission… even a rarer event that someone enters my room without my immediate knowledge." Rhysand flicked a piece of lint from his tunic lazily, "Tell me, how did you break my wards?"

Lucien was silent for a second, his own fear freezing him in place. Then, he seemed to come alive all at once. "Perhaps you're not as clever as you think if an emissary can break through your wards without much more than a second thought." His words were sharp, crisp. His good eye narrowed as it took in Rhysand's night-kissed form.

"Hmm." Rhysand examined his nails, allowing them to turn into claws and then forcing them back into their normal forms. He did not miss the shiver that trembled through Lucien at that sight. "Regardless. I expect there is a good reason for you sneaking into my room so late. Or should I say early?" Rhysand chuckled darkly. "Someone might get the wrong idea if you're not careful, fox boy."

"What do you want from her? Why do you torment her?" Lucien spit out suddenly, his fists clenched. The hatred in his gaze took Rhys by surprise. Hated, he was hated by so many, but most had a good reason for hating him. Lucien… he had done little to personally affect him. Rhysand entered his mind, wincing at the swirling storm of unending, unyielding misery. He knew that Beron had killed Lucien's lover, a commoner. But… Rhysand shifted through his memories.

He watched as Beron tortured Lucien's young lover, a pretty little lesser fae with shimmering blonde hair while two sets of hands gripped his arms. He watched as Lucien shoved his sword through one of his brother's hearts under the canopy of a heavenly wooded forest, then as Tamlin clawed open another red-headed brother. He watched as Lucien's brothers fled from Tamlin's lands. He watched as Lucien tracked the scent of his friend through grey woods before returning to his High Lord. He watched as Lucien sat, chewing on a piece of straw as Feyre screamed for help from a group of naga. He watched as Lucien leaned against the back wall of the throne room, horrified to see Feyre in Amarantha's Court.

Rhysand withdrew from Lucien's mind, only a few seconds passing since Lucien asked him that question. "What do I want from her?" Rhysand repeated, laughing darkly.

"Perhaps you should ask yourself the same thing, Lucien. What did you want from her?" He took a step forward, his fists shoved deep in his pockets.

"What did you want from her when you let her nearly be killed by the naga? What did you want from her when you let Tamlin push her away?" Lucien blinked at his slow approach. "Oh, I know what you've done to her as well. I know all of the things you've done, but mostly the things you didn't do. Do not make me out to be some torturer when you did little to prevent your _friend_ from the torments of the court you serve. When you did little to protect her from the monsters that live under this mountain."

Lucien bared his teeth in return, his hands fisted at his sides. Rhysand could feel heat rolling from him. "Tamlin's hands might be tied, but mine are not. Did you forget that she gave me back my power? Even after being whipped, I am stronger than I have been in years. I may not be able to beat you Rhysand, but do not think that I will not die for my friends."

Rhysand was in face in less than a second, having crossed the room with inhuman speed. His hand, this time was balled up in Lucien's shirt, lifting him off his feet. He growled in Lucien's face. "Do you think it's wise to threaten me, little fox? Even now, I am the most powerful High Lord that has ever been. Do you not think I will punish you for your insolence?"

Lucien glared down at him, his hands gripping Rhysand's wrist, trying to rip himself free. The heat of his grasp was burning through Rhysand's favorite tunic.

"I would… have… saved… her." Lucien gasped out through gritted teeth as he struggled.

Rhysand stared at him for a long moment before dropping him. He threw up a ward to silence any ears currently listening to their conversation. He wondered if this was a trap set up for him by the queen herself. His probing mind searched for eavesdroppers but… there were none.

"I would have saved her." Lucien said through muttered lips, his hands rubbing his sides where his tunic had pulled at his armpits. "That day, that first task. I know what you did to me that day, and I don't know why. But I would have done it myself if you hadn't taken control of me." Rhysand ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the autumn male. _Shit._ Lucien was always clever, always knowing. What would he have to give for his silence? What would he have to _take?_

"You took that opportunity away from me. The opportunity to redeem myself for what I let happen to her." Lucien growled then, "How could you save her that day, protect her during that task, then force her to bind herself to you? Then, after she foolishly creates that bargain with you, you strut her about the throne room like a _concubine!_ "

Rhysand smirked at him then, crossing his arms. "My reasons are as ever, my own. I do have a question for you in turn though, emissary. Why did you take twenty lashes for me? When you know I controlled you?"

Lucien bared his teeth, glancing around him. Looking for a weapon. "Because, for a moment when you controlled me, and I knew that you controlled me to keep Feyre from dying I-…" He threw his hands up in frustration. "I thought you were on our side."

Rhysand gave him an opened toothed grin then, allowing the night to deep around him. "Let me tell you a secret, Lucien. Do you remember me telling our Queen that my father taught me to always bet on the most profitable outcome?" He paused then, debating. "I was lying. My father, however the cruel and clever High Lord, was more wise than that."

Rhysand gripped Lucien's mind suddenly, regret burning as panic filled Lucien's mind. "He told me something else entirely. My father taught me to always bet on the winning side."

He gripped Lucien's mind a moment longer, letting the fear fester. Both of Lucien's eyes were boring holes into Rhysand's face. He traced a phantom talon over Lucien's mind, however clever and sad, and then let him free.

Lucien fell onto his hands and knees with a gasp.

"Let this be a warning to you, emissary. If you enter my room again without my permission, I will wipe you from the face of the earth, along with your darling Lady of the Autumn Court. If you approach me asking foolish questions again, I will wipe you from the memory of everyone you have ever met before turning you into one of my own servants. Are we understood?"

Lucien just gripped the floor, his chest heaving with his breaths.

Rhysand stepped forward, pulling Lucien to his feet by the front of his tunic again. "I said, are we understood, Lucien?"

Lucien looked at Rhysand in pure, unadulterated fear. "I understand." His voice was a whisper.

Rhysand let go of him then, approaching his chair and decanter. He poured himself a glass, sniffing slightly for poison before flickering his gaze back to Lucien who still stood in front of his fireplace.

"Are you going to get out, or will I have to throw you out?" Rhysand drawled, taking a small sip of his whiskey.

That shook Lucien from his daze, and he glanced briefly at Rhysand. A thought passed through that miserable mind, projected directly to Rhysand. _She's better. She's better than any of us._ Rhys didn't know if this was an intentional blast but… Rhysand struggled to swallow his mouthful.

Then, Lucien was out of room faster than he would have thought possible from anyone but a High Lord.

Rhysand wondered if Lucien was truly an heir to the Autumn Court, but perhaps the heir to a completely different court.

He sighed to himself, settling deep into his armchair. This had to be one of the longest days of his life. He sipped on his whiskey, throwing his wards back up around his room, discovering Lucien had taken more than just the few intruder wards down with his invasion.

It was an easy distraction, but not enough to save him from the endless guilt sucking at his soul. He couldn't get the view of her lulling head moving side to side with every movement as those monsters carried her from the throne room. The shame in the melody of her thoughts, the hatred that burned through her mind every time she looked at him. _She's better. She's better than any of us._

* * *

Rhysand received only few hours of restless sleep, followed by a few more hours of laying on his stomach, wishing he was spreading his wings above him. He watched the low coals of the fire smoldering on the floor of his fireplace. He knew he should get up, eat a late breakfast, go train. He should go do something, but he couldn't find the will to remove himself from his own bed. The bond between Feyre and himself had been a push and a pull, a constant balance between pulling it closer and blocking it out completely. It was unlike him to be so indecisive but… the guilt that ate him up as he felt her misery and exhaustion was choking him. So, he shut her out but after only a few minutes of merciful emptiness the loneliness of his own existence set it.

He was alone, trapped under this mountain. His friends governed his court from him. His city, Velaris was saved only by his wards, by his ability to manipulate minds. The rest of his court was at Amarantha's mercy, half of his Court of Nightmares gone before he could even understand what he had done with that damning sip of poison. Why did it hit him again, now, after fifty years of imprisonment? Rhysand had survived this already. He had endured. Why did he feel himself slipping into a deep darkness?

It seemed like the only thing that could drag him out was his connection to _her_. That human girl, the one who had been so interested in him at Calanmai, the one who had painted poppies on a kitchen table, the one who had faced the darkness to fight for those she loved… she was the only thing tethering him to sanity. So, he settled into a deep brood, grabbing a few grapes off his nightstand, stared into the fire and opened and closed that bond.

When he opened the bond, he could taste her emotions and a rare thought would float his way. Since last night… there had been no thoughts, only torrents of regret, mixed with maybe some illness? Nausea?

That would be the wine.

He rested on his back then, brushing his fingertips across his ribs. This gave him quick, overwhelming access to her mind.

 _Don't you think you understand what Rhys is?_

 _Ridiculous. I do. I do know._

Rhysand ripped his fingers away. Well, at least she was awake now. Even if she was grumbling about him.

He just tried to breathe, tried to push that lurking darkness out of his mind.

Is it wrong to listen? To invade her privacy?

He gave up after a few moments, laying his right hand across his bare chest. He could almost smell her lilac and pear scent, the melody of his thoughts filling his head.

 _Prick. Cruel, manipulative, disgusting prick._

Despite himself, despite being trapped in this place that would never be his home… a small smile graced his lips as he listened to her curse him.

Night after night, Rhysand used her. Nuala and Cerridwan carried her off to their private washing room, scrubbing her, painting her, dressing her. Night after night, she glared at Rhysand with such loathing and hatred that he could barely look her in the eye. He had snuck into her cell once, just to check on her after a particularly taxing night. Amarantha had been watching him closely that night, and he had made her dance, dance and dance until her feet were raw and aching, until she had vomited until she was only dry heaving in a corner. She had been shivering, her pale skin peaked underneath her thin gown, a corner reeking of bile. Her back, visible as she curled into the corner was bony, her ribs visible underneath her skin. Thin, much too thin. He had warmed her until he had to leave, wishing he could do more to save her from this hellhole.

And yet, they persisted. Amarantha watched him from afar, using him after he sent Feyre away but… it was working. Amarantha no longer sent her on foolish tasks, no other of the court's ilk bother her. Thus, Rhysand became her lone torturer.

The worst part of the night, even with the exotic dancing, the using, the soft touches on her waist… no, the worst part was when they arrived at the throne room, her dressed as his whore, him dressed as a servant. Feyre's beautiful blue eyes were always fierce, defiant up until the moment that she looked at Tamlin sitting on that bronze throne beside the Red Queen. As their eyes met, Tamlin remained stoic but Feyre, curse her, melted under his gaze. Her eyes welled with unborn tears, her mouth trembled with misery, love, desire.

It was more than Rhysand could bear, and yet it made it all the easier to get through his night.

The evening before the second trial crept by quickly and Rhysand debated on giving her the night off. However, he knew, as Amarantha stared at him as he exited her room the night before that her absence would be noted. If he was easy on her, gave her an opportunity to reset before the task Amarantha would accuse him of helping the girl.

And so, he dressed her in a burning dress of blood orange, a color that he had hated before, but had quickly discovered brought out the pinkness of her lips, her eyelids.

 _She's ready_.

A whisper of a mind brushed against his own. Nuala.

Rhysand headed to the washroom, unsure what he was going to say. He was dressed in his best tunic, his boots shining. He supposed he had dressed well out of solidarity to her trial tomorrow.

He entered the dark room, and she was just as beautiful as the day he had first seen her, even if the glare that was directed at him slapped him in the face. On her head set a thin, thorned crown. A diadem that had been created for a wife that he would never have.

Nuala and Cerridwan bowed their heads in his direction before exiting through the wall. They barely looked at him, unable to stomach what he was doing to Feyre. He supposed he could understand, if he had a choice, he wouldn't look at himself either.

He closed the door behind him, then stood, casually looking at her with his hands in his pockets. She had crossed her arms to cover her chest, not realizing that all she did was push her breasts together.

He kept his gaze on her face, his voice cool, "Your second trial is tomorrow night."

She blinked and stared at his tunic, not looking at his face. She was hiding her surprise, having lost count of the days.

"So?"

"It could be your last," he said quietly, the truth ringing through the room. He leaned against the locked door behind him, crossing his arms in turn.

"If you're taunting me into playing another game of yours, you're wasting your breath," she muttered, still refusing to look at him.

"Aren't you going to beg me to give you a night with your beloved?"

"I'll have that night, and all the ones after, when I beat her final task," she snapped then, those eyes flashing to his own _finally._

 _Damn right you will, my darling Feyre._ Even if the place beneath his sternum ached at the thought. Her ferocity, determination… it was intoxicating.

A traitorous part of his mind was whispering: _one of us, one of us, one of us._

He only shrugged then, his grin slipping out before he could stop it, taking an involuntary step in her direction, "I wonder if you were this prickly with Tamlin when you were his captive."

"He never treated me like a captive- or a slave."

Rhysand wanted to snap at her that a gilded cage is a cage just the same, but he reigned himself in. But he couldn't stop the rest of the cruel words from slipping out from between his lips.

"No- and how could he? Not with the shame of his father and brothers' brutality always weighing on him, the poor, noble beast. But perhaps if he'd bothered to learn a thing or two about cruelty, about what it means to be a true High Lord, it would have kept the Spring Court from falling." His words were harsh and unnecessary, but cauldron, Rhysand _hated_ him. He killed Livana, his mother, his father. His family, anyone who had a chance of possibly understanding the burden of his crown. And then, he had taken _her._

She stared him in the eye, her face flushed with anger, "Your court fell, too."

Those words took his breath away. That darkness that had been lingering in the back of his mind stepped forward, and the sadness, the misery threatened to suffocate him.

Feyre seemed to notice his pain, although he knew he had not let his face change. She glanced at the feline eye imbued on her left palm, her brow furrowing for a moment before she opened her mouth again, "When you were roaming freely on Fire Night- at the Rite- you said it cost you. Were you one of the High Lords that sold allegiance to Amarantha in exchange for not being forced to live down here?"

Wrath filled him that. He had sacrificed so much, killed so many, killed innocent children, wiped entire minds from existence for that disgusting, cruel little witch and he still was trapped here. Trapped in this cruel place, unable to see his home, his friends. Rhysand drew in a deep breath, trying to reign in his control. What could she possibly understand about what he had done?

"What I do or have done for my Court is none of your concern," his voice came out frigid.

Feyre's eyes lifted from his face to stare at something behind his back for a moment as she asked, "And what has she been doing for the past forty-nine years? Holding court and torturing everyone as she pleases? To what end?"

Wasn't that the question of the century? Forces had been gathering in Hybern according to what few reports got through to him. The King intended to do something, Rhysand knew but… what? War? To take over the island? He might as well move on in at this point, with all of Prythian's High Lords being held by the balls by Amarantha. But Feyre… she hated him. And now was not the time for this discussion.

"The Lady of the Mountain needs no excuses for her actions." _Lady of the Mountain._ A cursed title.

"But-," Feyre opened her mouth.

"The festivities await," Rhysand interrupted, gesturing to the door.

She stepped forward, her hand out like she would grab his arm but thought better of it. He wasn't sure she was completely aware of her movement, "What do you want with me? Beyond taunting Tamlin."

A wiry smile crossed his face for a moment, "Taunting him is my greatest pleasure," he bowed mockingly, "And as for your question, why does any male need a reason to enjoy the presence of a female?"

Her scent washed over him, so entrancing. Why did she affect him this way?

"You saved my life," Feyre said quietly.

"And through your life, I saved Tamlin's," the words sounded false, even to his own ears. How had a truth ever sounded so much like a lie?

"Why?" The anger was gone from her face, her eyes staring into him. Stripping him bare.

Rhysand winked at her, his mask carefully slipping into place. He smoothed his hair back, "That, Feyre, is the real question, isn't it?"

With that, he opened the door with a gentle wind, ushering her from the room.

She looked at him curiously as she passed him, her bare feet padding quietly along the stone floor. That was perhaps the first look lacking hatred for him in what felt like a long time.

They walked in silence to the throne room, and Rhysand was so distracted by the sway of her hips, the waving movement of her hair as she lead the way that they had almost entered the room before Rhysand noticed the change of atmosphere, the smell of fear leaking from the throne room.

As they approached the room, Rhysand quickened his pace so that he stood in front of his harlot, entering the room just before she did. As he entered the room, the crowd was quiet, turning their gazes to him. Their gazes lingered on him for once, nearly ignoring the woman behind him.

A few red heads pushed to the front of the crowd.

"Rhysand," Amarantha's voice called out over the lilting music.

Rhysand pushed through the crowd, pausing as Feyre struggled to keep up. Eris and the second oldest Autumn Court brother had turned their hungry eyes on the woman, small smiles on their lips.

 _Perhaps he wouldn't notice if we-_

Rhysand sent them a warning glance, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He hoped only the brothers noticed that. Feyre had opened her mouth behind him, but he just pushed her gently forward with a hand on her back until she stood in front of him, then tugged her along beside him by the arm.

"Just stay close, and keep your mouth shut," he whispered quietly in her ear. He could taste her scent on his tongue, even as he could feel the burning of Amarantha's eyes.

The crowd quickly parted as they approached the dais, revealing a dark-skinned male sobbing on the floor at Amarantha's feet. Summer Court, if his skin color was any indication. Amarantha was smirking down at him, her teeth bare in a cruel grin. Tamlin sat behind her in his chair, staring only at the scene before him. He did not even shift gaze as his human lover arrived.

Rhysand glanced once at Feyre, silently begging her to stay close but out of attention. She seemed to understand, her face pale and lips pressed tightly together.

Amarantha brushed a few of her clawed fingers across Jurian's eye, her eyes shifting from the male on the floor to Rhysand as he slowly drew closer. "The summer lordling tried to escape through the exit to the Spring Court lands. I want to know why."

Tarquin stood to the side, closest to the dais. Amarantha had sucked all the power from him, and his usual stormy presence was… drab in comparison. The color from his face had been leaked out, his eyes no longer the glowing, ocean blue. Rhysand could hear his heart pounding loudly from a few feet away.

He really needed to get better control of himself if he had something to hid.

Rhysand slipped a casual mask over his face, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stood over the trembling male. He shoved his pity down deep, letting himself be filled with only cold, deep determination.

He looked down at the male, and as their eyes met, the faerie cringed away from Rhysand, tears slipping down his face. He was high borne, that was obvious. Likely young, based on the overflowing of his fear and emotions. Rhysand wrinkled his nose as the man wet himself.

"Please," the blue-eyed male gasped, his hands together in a beg.

The music faded to a stop as Rhysand took hold of that young male's mind, his body stilling completely as Rhysand held his existence in his talons.

Rhysand slowly sifted through his mind, remaining silent in his mind, unable to make any promises of life or death. Perhaps, if he played his cards right he could save this poor male.

Brutius. That was his name. A cousin of Tarquin's, he watched them spar together through his memories. High ranking in the Summer Court's armies, they had fought and laughed and drank together.

He watched, seeing a vision of Adriata, Morrowsville, Ransun… great cities of the Summer Court. Filled with soldiers. Preparing to storm the mountain.

They were plotting against her and this male had been trying to leave in order to meet up with a friend in Adriata. He watched the moment that the Attor grabbed a hold of Brutius, pinning him against the

wall. Drug him to the throne room. Much as Feyre had been drug before the Queen.

 _Shit._ There would be no saving him… There were too many variables, uncontrolled factors. Tarquin was foolish to make such a mistake. Rhysand did not shift his gaze from the male, frozen on the floor, his heart slowing as Rhysand calmed his body, eased his breathing. He could see Tarquin from his peripheral vision, also still, staring. The sour scent of fear leaked towards him, mixing with the ocean-breeze of the High Lord's scent.

Rhysand made his choice. He had been young once and paid for his mistakes in the blood of his family. Perhaps Tarquin would get another chance.

Rhysand glanced up from the male to stare into Amarantha's dark eyes, "He wanted to escape. To get to the Spring Court, cross the wall, and flee south into human territory. He had no accomplices, no motive beyond his own pathetic cowardice."

He gestured to the pool of urine on the floor. Tarquin relaxed visibly in his peripheral vision, and he was grateful that Amarantha did not take remove her gaze from the male. It was clear that Tarquin made a terrible liar.

Feyre was wondering what choice exactly Rhysand had made. She was much too observant for her own good, but… perhaps that would save her.

Amarantha rolled her eyes, slouching back against her throne, "Shatter him, Rhysand." She glanced finally to Tarquin, "You may do what you want with the body afterward."

Tarquin had the wise instinct to bow to the Red Witch graciously, then turned his gaze to Brutius. His cousin who he had loved. His friend. As Rhysand stared at the male, he features transformed until Cassian was crouched before him on the floor. His friend.

Rhysand blinked away the vision. She wanted Rhysand to turn Brutius into a zombie, just like he had with all those children but… no. Not today.

Brutius had relaxed now, his face still wet with his tears. He had closed his eyes in resolve, hugging his knees close to his body.

 _Thank you._ Brutius whispered into his mind.

Rhysand slipped his right hand out of his pocket this time, dangling at his side.

 _Let him pass through the gates, let him smell the immortal land of milk and honey…_ Rhysand took away his ability to feel pain. Then, he smoothed out any wrinkle of fear left in Brutius's mind.

"I'm growing bored, Rhysand," Amarantha sighed, playing with that born necklace of hers.

Rhysand closed his hand into a fist.

Brutius's mind was whipped clean just as Rhysand dropped his heart rate. His blue eyes remained open as he tipped onto his side, his shoulder falling into that puddle. A thin line of blood leaked from his nose and ears.

He heard Feyre's heart take off in a wild gallop. The silence, otherwise, was deafening. The darkness seemed to be closing in on him.

"I said shatter his mind, not his brain," Amarantha snapped.

He tore his eyes from the faerie to look at his queen. The crowd began to stir again around him. He had just disobeyed a direct order in front of an entire crowd. He wondered what he would pay for his insolence even as he shrugged, "Apologies, my queen."

He slid his shaking hands back into his pockets, turning away from Amarantha. Why was he so shaken by this tonight? What had changed?

He walked to the back of the throne room, unable to look at Feyre even as he could feel the burning of her starlight eyes on his face, on his back. She fell into step beside him, trembling. Her heart pounded mercilessly. Amarantha stared at his back as well and he could feel her displeasure as he strolled away without dismissal.

 _Whore. Amarantha's whore. How cruel. What a monster._ Whispers and thoughts alike pounded into him.

They were much easier to bear than the ' _Good that you killed him. Good that you killed the traitor.'_

He headed directly for the table laden with food and wine, ignoring any eyes, any voices. He kept his steps relaxed, his body lose, his mask in place. He felt as though that concrete mask had cracked and he was trembling underneath, revealing more and more of himself as he shook.

Feyre, bless and curse the girl, was projecting her thoughts down the bound. _That killing had been a mercy. I know it, I know that others were involved in that escape plan. Rhysand was just playing another game._

He tried to block her out, but he couldn't even grasp onto his control well enough to do that.

When he poured her wine that night, he poured himself a glass to down with her. As Feyre was swept into the sweet intoxication, he chugged his glass as well, her all-seeing eyes branding his face.

* * *

I guess that means that next chapter is the second trial. YAY!

Thanks for reading. Please review :)

EDIT: I JUST REALIZED WE'VE REACHED THE 100K WORD MARK! PARTY!


	17. Almost A Killing Blow

Hiya everyone.

I bring to you: Trial Number TWO!

This one was hard to write, being the trial written in the least amount of detail so I took some artistic liberties with a few events. I hope you don't mind.

Please, enjoy and tell me what you think. The reviews keep me going!

Also, this the longest chapter yet at nearly 8k words... so please forgive me for taking so long to update?

3 Love, TurtleSteed

* * *

That night, Rhysand drank and drank until chemical numbness soothed the aching parts of his soul. Feyre spun in his arms, her eyes closed, bubbely laughs escaping her lips. The alcohol, the magical embrace of faerie wine was blurring her edges, making her outline glow in a way that both anchored and disturbed him. She was drunk as well, the wine making her foolish and girlish. She danced for him in between his legs, unaware of her surroundings, of who watched her.

Rhysand, drunk as he was, never lost control. He never touched her anywhere except for her arms, her waist. But… she was so beautiful. So human, so bright and fleeting in his life. She shot across his existence like a falling star, and he could do little more than bask under her existence. Feyre stumbled when he moved her too quickly, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving from the dancing and wine. The spinning of her bloody-orange dance entranced him; her painter's hands ensnared him.

Amarantha kept her dark eyes on them both even as the rest of the crowd shot fleeting glances at the body of the faerie on the floor. Tamlin stared ahead, his face betraying nothing. Not even an ember of rage snuck out from behind his defenses tonight.

Rhys was being foolish, and he knew it. As the night trickled into the early morning, Feyre's steps grew more sluggish, her mind slipping into exhaustion. He was lounging on his black leather couch, the throne room spinning around him, the alcohol lulling and numbing the misery of the mountain. His power was slipping through the minds of the court, slick with his cruel control… searching. Searching for something that would let him know what would be happening tomorrow.

What curse awaited them, ready to decide their fate.

He was fool, and he didn't care. Darkness lurked in the corners of his mind, the only thing keeping it out was the girl who now sat on the floor in between his legs, her eyes blinking slowly, her head tilting back.

 _Shit._ What was he doing? Spiraling because he had killed a pawn in this game of crowns?

He chewed his lip, letting his eyes rake around the throne room. It seemed that Amarantha had done a good job of keeping the next trial a secret. Not a hint of what was planned for his little human girl was being even thought about tonight.

He did notice that the Attor was noticeably absent from his mistresses' side.

As Feyre faded beneath him, he crossed his arms across his chest, his fingers brushing against that hidden tattoo across his ribs.

Her thoughts were slipping off into oblivion, her head falling against his knee.

A few faeries let their eyes linger on them, looking at the fallen High Lord and his human seductress. He suppressed his instinct to growl at them, pull her up in his lap. Protect her.

He shoved that nonsensical want deep down, and motioned to two pig-nosed, large jowled guards standing against the wall nearby. The room spun with his movement. _Foolish. He was nothing but a fool for getting this drunk._

"Take her back to her cell," Rhysand muttered, looking away from the trio and letting his gaze settle over those who remained in Amarantha's ridiculous throne room. His face was carefully bored, even if his head was muddled, confused.

As they lifted Feyre off her feet by her shoulders, her head lulled forward, a groan escaping her lips. Rhys had tortured her, drugged her enough nights to know what was coming next but his clouded mind struggled to keep up.

She retched a terribly red wine over his boots and the bottoms of his trousers. The guards dropped her, jumping back in disgust.

Feyre fell forward to her hands and knees, brushing her tattooed arm to wipe her mouth after she was done gagging.

Rhysand didn't move, her warm sickness sinking through his clothing.

Faeries turned to stare at them both. He felt two sets of prying eyes turn towards them from the daze, burning him.

He wanted nothing more than to sweep her off into his arms, clean them both with a sweep of his power and to put her in his comfortable bed with a glass of water and potion nearby.

Instead, he pursed his lips, feigning disgust. He did erase the sickness with a brush of his power, removing the stains and mess from them both. Rhys slowly stood, reaching down to gently pull her to her feet. She stood clumsily, her orange dress swirling around her with the movement. Her diadem was askew.

Knowing that Amarantha and her cronies heard every word, noticed every action, he straightened the crown on her head, brushing her hair out of her face.

She stared at him with heavily lidded eyes.

"My pet…" he murmured, his voice low, his lips curled into a cruel smile, "you have ruined a pair of my shoes."

Feyre said nothing, barely keeping her feet under her. Faeries were watching him closely now, wondering how he would punish her. He could feel their accusing eyes.

"Hmm," Rhysand tilted his head to the side, wanting to lift her into his arms, "Back to your cell then. Try not to vomit on anything else on your way back."

The guards looked at him in trepidation as he pushed her towards them.

As they dragged her forward through the crowds of Amarantha's court, faeries gave her ample space.

Perhaps he would have Nuala or Cerridwan slip her a potion before her hangover could catch up with her. It was a good thing she had vomited so early tonight… let poison to purge from her system later.

She had a trial to defeat later today, after all. And he was the one who forced the wine past her lips.

Rhysand let his eyes follow her. As her form disappeared behind the stone entryway, he threw himself back down on his couch. He crossed a leg so he could examine his boots for evidence of staining. Darkness was seeping into his mind, a cloud slipping over his vision. He was such a fool. Did he say that already?

"Rhysand." He felt the summoning as much as heard it.

 _Fuck._ That high, cruel voice.

Rhysand lifted his eyes from his boots, a sly smile slipping over his face. He stood, his movements smoother than he would have expected from the way his head was spinning.

Dark eyes bore into him, the red witch leaning back in her throne. Her nails were thumping slowly over the bronze arm of the throne.

Tamlin was pointedly ignoring him. The lack of anger was strange to Rhysand… perhaps Tamlin was sinking below the waves as well.

He approached the dais on which the twin thrones rested, his eyes slipping over the green dress Amarantha wore tonight. It complemented the pinkness in her cheeks, the redness of her lips. She almost would have looked beautiful if she wasn't such a demon.

Maybe he really had had too much to drink tonight.

Rhysand gave her a long bow, one hand behind his back, one resting across his stomach.

"How can I be of service, Your Majesty?" his voice was a purr.

Her eyes sunk into him a long moment before she replied.

"Now that your," her voice paused, "- _pet_ is gone for the evening, I have something I need you to do for me." She tilted her head back slightly as she spoke, her voice spitting out the word 'pet' like a curse. The thorned crown on her head shimmered slightly in the faelight.

Amarantha had started wearing her crown every night since Rhysand brought his own Queen into the throne room.

He gave her an obedient smile, letting his eyes linger over her in the way that he knew made her squirm.

She shifted under his gaze, a heat brushing over her cheeks.

Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back down quickly with his disgust.

"It involves our trial for that little human slut," her lips curled into a cruel smile, "I need you to retrieve someone for me."

"Someone?" Rhysand let his eyebrows raise, the crowd hushing around him as they hung on their words.

"Yes," Amarantha's teeth were showing now. Tamlin glanced at her, his stony expression not changing, but Rhysand felt a sliver of fear slip out from under his hedges. "I would like to see how deep the bonds of friendship are bound to our prisoner. We already know that the bonds of _love_ created by these creatures are little more than pretense… but, we have yet to test _friendship._ "

Words muttered on the muddy floor of that arena echoed in Rhysand's mind.

 _Feyre… was my friend while I lived in the Spring Court._

Words spoken before the glowing fireplace in Rhysand's own room.

 _I may not be able to beat you Rhysand, but do not think I will not die for my friends._

 _She's better. She's better than any of us._

The spinning of Rhysand's mind intensified as he wondered if she knew. If he had been a fool, only to be played by his own foolish game.

"Lucien." Amarantha purred, leaning forward.

Rhysand concentrated on keeping his face bored, uninterested.

"No." A hushed whisper came from behind him. A scent of apples, warm caramel, twine wrapped straw leaked around him.

The Lady of the Autumn Court.

"Hush, woman," a deep, male voice shushed her. There was a struggle behind him and Rhysand knew better than to turn away from Amarantha twice in one night… not when the Summer Court man still lay a few feet away from him, the blood creating a dried halo around his head.

There was a blast of heat, the sound of a woman's shriek, "Please, my son!", a loud slap and then… silence.

Amarantha smiled again, leaning back. Jurian's eye stared at the ceiling with disinterest.

There was the sound of heavy breathing behind him. Helion was off to the right of the throne. He had not moved during the altercation, but his face was even icier than the Winter Court's High Lord, Kallias, who stood just a few feet behind Helion.

Lucien had been lingering on the outskirts of the throne room as he usually did, avoiding his brothers and talking quietly with friends from other courts. Now, he approached slowly from the left, and Rhysand did little more than shift his gaze to the red-haired male.

The fox mask glittered in the faelight as Lucien approached the dias, dropping to his knees in front of the red-haired bitch.

Amarantha looked down at him, saying nothing, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Maybe it was the wine, but a dark chuckle escaped from between Rhysand's lips. "It seems you may not require my gifts after all, my Queen. Your dog appears to answer your call."

Lucien leaned forward in a bow, his golden eye closed but audibly whirling behind his closed lids. Rhysand had no doubt who he stared at with that mechanical contraption.

"Please, my Queen." Lucien spoke quietly.

The silence was palpable now. Eris and his brothers had moved to the front of the crowd. Eris crossed his arms across his chest as he waited on his brothers' fate, the cruel smile not quite meeting his golden eyes.

Amarantha gestured, and one the Attor's ilk stomped over to the throne, carrying a grey piece of fabric in his claws. A piece of gold thread sparkled in the light, Rhysand recognizing the form of a sleeping dragon in the embroidery.

The creature held up the cloak like a piece of evidence and then threw it on the floor in front of Lucien. Rhysand recognized it as the cloak worn by much of Amarantha's men… particularly, the men that guarded her prison.

Lucien rose out of his bow at the cue. Amarantha smiled down at him again, leaning her chin against her free hand.

"I thought that a whip would be enough to give me your loyalty, dear Lucien, but it appears that I was wrong. This cloak was found tossed over my prisoner earlier this morning… and as none of my guards are foolish enough to gift a cloak to a creature as low as that girl, I knew someone must have been visiting her in her jail cell." Tamlin looked down at his friend finally, his face dull but his hand squeezed the arm of his throne.

"You must have thought yourself clever, thinking you came in to visit your _friend_ without anyone being the wiser. Unfortunately for you, I have eyes all over this mountain. You could call them my _friends._ " Her teeth gleamed.

Amarantha leaned back, sighing dramatically. "What ever will I do with you? It seems that this little creature is skilled at wrapping faerie males in her web." She looked down at Jurian's ring.

"I think I test is in order, isn't it, dear Jurian?" Her eyes sparkled madly now.

"We certainly have proved that these human fools are incapable of love, even if they think they understand the concept. That much is clear by our prisoner's inability to solve my riddle…" Tamlin gripped the throne so hard that his knuckles were turning white. Uneasy laughter trickled through the throne room.

"But, what about friendship?" Her voice rose, as her plan took flight. "I think we shall be testing friendship tomorrow. Perhaps by providing a little incentive for our trial tomorrow."

Lucien swallowed hard. Rhysand felt the submission before it was even spoken.

"Whatever you wish, Your Majesty. I will pay the price for my foolish heart."

Rhysand heard the double meaning, even if the Red Queen did not.

Amarantha laughed then, a crazed sound that echoed around the room. The crowd shifted uncomfortably, even as some of her cronies did their best to cackle along with her.

"Oh, not just you will pay the price for your _foolish heart_. The whole Autumn Court shall be paying for your stupidity." Rhysand heard the sharp intake of air behind him.

Slow footsteps approached until Beron stood beside Rhysand. He looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. Beron was pale, his usual crackling presence diminished into the ghost of the male he had once been. With his powers severely diminished, the lines on his face were glaring. The grey hairs that scattered across his temples were stark against his auburn hair.

"Please, Your Majesty," Beron spoke, falling to one knee next to Rhysand before the Queen. "The Autumn Court has been nothing but loyal towards your cause. This… male is not son of mine. He has not been my son from the moment he killed his own flesh and blood."

Lucien did not look up at his father, but he instead looked at the dirty floor in front of the dais. His breath didn't do so much as catch, but his hands were twisted into fists at his side.

Amarantha looked down at the Autumn Lord, tilting her head in a predatory gaze she had learned from Rhysand.

"I do appreciate your loyalty, Lord Beron." Beron physically relaxed as she spoke his name. _Who's the fool now?_

"However, sometimes we must all pay a price for crimes that we didn't commit. After all, there is nothing that binds us closer than blood."

Beron stared at her in horror, his hands fists at his side. Female sobbing could be heard somewhere behind him, likely the Lady. Lucien's mother, crying for her family's fate.

"Rhysand." Amarantha smirked. "I shall need your services after all."

Rhysand slipped his hand out of his pocket, his head still swimming but… his talons closed around the minds of the Autumn Court. Lucien, The Lady of the Autumn Court, Beron, Eris, his brothers… their entire existence settled in his claws.

Several faeries in the crowd took a step away from him as the entirety of Autumn Court's lordling family fell to their knees, their bodies going tense.

 _Monster._

 _Why would the Cauldron give so much power to something so cruel?_

Amarantha giggled, bringing Jurian's eye up to her lips, resting them on the glass cage surrounding it. She leaned back.

"Lull them into a sleep, Rhysand. They will be useful tomorrow. I do not want them waking up until well after the trial tomorrow… except our favorite emissary, Lucien Vanserra."

Rhysand had to concentrate more of his power on this than he liked to admit, his brow furrowing as he lulled them to sleep… it wasn't the sleeping part that was difficult. But it was the waking them up after a certain time that was troubling him.

Amarantha waved a lazy hand, a light wave of white power shifting into him. A quarter of his power returned.

Rhysand looked at her in shock, before he remembered himself, and schooled his face into one of boredom.

The Vanserra family all laid on the ground in one movement, curling up on their sides.

Was the power she gave him enough to kill her?

Was it enough?

Rhysand began to pull at the threads that bound him, drawing up his power in a killing blow, wishing he hadn't drunk so much tonight and-

Amarantha drew that quarter of power back inside herself.

The feeling of pure hatred, misery was so profound that he knew his mask slipped off his face, only for a moment.

Luckily, she was smirking down at the sleeping figure of Lucien, ignoring her most faithful servant.

But Helion saw it. Tamlin saw it. Kallias. The expression of rage so pure, the dark corona that he knew he had let escape… shock trembled over their own faces as well.

Before Rhysand could act, control them himself, forcing them to fall back into their obedient, miserable faces… they had schooled their faces as well into one of disinterest.

Helion brushed his mind against Rhsyand's own, only for a moment.

 _You should have acted sooner._

Rhysand growled at him mentally, using the remnants of his power to lift the Autumn Court royals off the floor of the throne room.

 _Do not make that mistake again, twin._

Rhysand pushed him out of the antechamber of his mind so forcefully that Helion visibly trembled as he was thrown back into his own mind.

"Rhysand, assist our _friends_ to their rooms for the night so we can properly prepare for the trial. The rest of you, off to sleep. Today could be the day that our plaything meets her fate. I don't want anyone struggling to stay awake during the trial." Amarantha giggled again, standing and clapping her hands. "Do not worry, friends of the Autumn Court. Lucien and his family have nothing to fear if our darling Feyre is more clever than she looks."

"Good night, my court." She purred, leading Tamlin out of the room.

Did that mean that he was free to return to his own room after he deposited the Vanserra's to their jailcells? She didn't do more than glance in his direction before she left the room.

He let his dark wind push the red-headed family down the stone-hewn hallway, pushing them away, away, away…

Just as he pushed his own hope away, away, away…

Hope was dangerous. It made him do stupid things.

Things that he hoped he would never do again.

No, he would return to Amarantha's room after he led them down the mountain.

Rhsyand was done being a fool.

* * *

Much as it had the first time, the day that brought their second chance at fate came much too quickly. After Rhysand had deposited Amarantha's toys off to their cells for the night, he returned to her room, found her waiting for him. Tamlin ignored her and looked at Rhysand with eyes that didn't look like they were seeing much of all.

Rhysand went through the motions, using his power and his instinct to lead them through the dance the Queen. She dug her nails in, the sound and scent of her enough to make him want to vomit.

When they were done, he returned to his rooms, his head finally starting to clear. He could smell the sickly scent of wine that leaked off him, and a headache beginning to ache in his temples. His wraiths were hidden in the shadows outside of his room, guarding without order. They hadn't been happy when he told them of Lucien breaking the wards in his room, and thus insisted on the pointless sentry.

Rhysand found it interesting but didn't worry. It's not like it mattered if he knew when someone was in his room… there was no evidence of his true motivations. And Amarantha could kill him with any whim. Let them come, let them enter his room. It's not like it made a difference.

He was still trapped under the once-sacred mountain, his powers weaker than ever before.

Rhysand didn't sleep in the early hours of the morning that remained. He knew that the trial wouldn't be until the evening, when the full moon was high above them. Amarantha wouldn't want her courtiers to be too tired or hung over to fully appreciate her cruel game.

He stayed in his room, staring into the low embers of his fire, sipping water until his headache started to ebb away. Servants brought him food, likely ordered by his wraiths. He avoided breakfast and lunch that day, but when dinner came, he picked at it before sliding into a warm bath.

Nuala and Cerridwan had snuck in some more his favorite jasmine scented soap, and he lay on his back, floating in the water, the soothing scent of his home brushing away the darkness. His fingertips traced the floral tattoos across his ribs. Feyre's trepidation and exhausted music slid through his mind.

She was such a blessing and a curse. She haunted his every movement, her melodic thoughts slipping behind the barrier that he had placed around that bond. She was everything, their only chance of freedom from that cursed bitch. And yet, her eyes glowed behind his closed lids. The petal pink lips that laughed darkly as he spun her around the throne room, the heavy lids that slid closed when those torturous nights came to end…

He was so very thankful that she wouldn't remember the nights he made her his harlot.

Rhysand dressed slowly, stretching the stiffness out of his limbs. Even under the mountain he could feel the night slipping by… the connection to the sky and night was better some days than others, but during the full moon it was impossible to ignore.

He left his room, heading towards the throne room. He picked a piece of lint off his jacket, unsure of where exactly the second trial would be taking place.

A bolt of sudden panic trembled down the bond that was lurking between every one of his breaths. He kept his face carefully calm, kept his legs moving forward. Get to the arena. Get to her. His mind whispered despite himself.

When he reached the throne room, some of Amarantha's grunts were pointing the crowd off in the correct direction. Faeries, High and lesser alike walked in the direction they pointed, but the atmosphere felt different.

Last time there had been more laughter, more cruel jokes at Feyre's expense. This time… it seemed like the crowds were nervous.

Rhysand hid a sad smile that threatened to slip across his face. People didn't get nervous when they had nothing to lose… and people thought of Feyre, the girl who might win their freedom, as something that could be lost.

Hope added value. Fragile, fleeting value.

As he passed the crowds, he slipped his hands into his pockets, his mind open to the crowd around him.

 _What does she have planned today?_

 _What monster awaits her this time?_

 _Whore. Whore. Amarantha's whore._

He blocked those last thoughts out. Whore he may be, but not without reason. And not without paying the price that came along with that title.

They were being herded in a different direction than last time, instead of being led deeper Under the Mountain, they were being led up, the dirty stone floor carving through dimly lit caverns at a low slope.

As Rhysand finally entered a room with a large stone entryway, he had thought originally that the walls made of pure gold. It was almost blinding inside, and completely barren except for a single, carved wooden chair that Amarantha herself was already sitting on. The room was rather large, although smaller than the arena that Amarantha had used for Feyre's first task. As he entered behind a group of faeries he recognized from Winter Court, each of their heads covered in long, white hair, he realized that the walls themselves were not pure gold. However, almost every surface had been gilded with a yellow gold, blinding and ostentatious. This could have been a throne room at one point, and Rhysand wondered for a moment why Amarantha did not use this room for her nightly parties.

Rhysand knew why though. Because she had modeled her mountain court after Rhysand's own Court of Nightmares, the court he had once tended to several times a year in the Hewn City.

Rhysand began to approach her by crossing over the middle of the room, wondering idly why everyone seemed to be hugging the edges of the room as the crowd gathered. However, as he reached about 20 feet from the middle of the room, his body was physically turned the other way.

Rhysand raised his eyebrows in confusion, stopping in his tracks, facing the center of the gilded room. Tentatively, he stuck a hand out, and winced as his arm was forcibly pulled back, and again, he was turned to walk around the perimeter of the room with the rest of the crowd. Amarantha smiled at him from across the room. Tamlin stood behind her, his throne missing this evening, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was bored, as though he was watching a particularly boring tennis match. At Amarantha's left stood the Attor, his grin cruel, his barbed tail flicking from side to side in anticipation. He ignored Rhysand completely.

 _Hmm._

Rhysand walked around the perimeter then with the rest of the crowd, looking around with interest. The crowd would be standing on top of each other, no stands having been produced for proper viewing this time. Rhysand settled with a position off the Amarantha's right, other High Lord's spread out on either side of the Queen. Helion had tried to catch his eye, but Rhysand ignored him completely.

The crowd was more hushed, choosing private conversations over yelling and boisterous laughter. Gold coin was being passed quietly from person to person, although Rhysand did not see the man with the gambling leger this time.

Phantom pain licked up Rhysand's back as he remembered the consequences of his actions after the last trial.

Rhysand investigated the middle of the room with interest, wondering where Lucien was being hidden… and what exactly lurked in the middle of the room, waiting for their champion. He couldn't see anything strange, but magic was a fickle being.

He crossed his arms across his chest, his fingers pressed against those tattoos, strengthening that bond between them until it was a tether.

Fear was leaking through Feyre's consciousness, and he felt the ghost of pressure on his upper arms. So, she was on her way.

He watched that stone entryway, a bored expression on his face, his arms crossed until his eyes burned. A few faeries scrapped their eyes over him, but most were shifting their weight from leg to leg, their hands clasped in front of them. Anticipating. Uncomfortable.

Amarantha was just as still as the rest of them, her eyes narrowed as they waited for their guest to arrive.

When two red-skinned guards finally arrived, their hands gripping the forearms of Feyre in between them, the crowd settled into an uneasy silence. Feyre was attempting to walk, although her feet barely touched the ground underneath her. They had dressed her back in her torn and muddy clothing, the dress from the evening before long gone. They hadn't offered to wash her however, and the paint that covered her body was smearing underneath their grasps, the spell that kept it in place and warded long broken.

Rhysand was thankful that she was meeting her second task covered in Illyrian symbols of glory, smeared or not.

Her hair was clean thanks to Rhysand's nightly playing but the kohl around her eyes and the redness on her lips had been wiped away before her arrival. Nuala and Cerridwan had been removing the jewels they were dripping her every night for fear of Amarantha taking them as her own but Rhysand for once wished they hadn't. Even in the rank clothing, the smeared paint, she looked never more deserving of a crown than she did when she gazed up at Amarantha with narrowed eyes. Even if Rhysand felt the fear that trembled through her through that aching bond, mixing with his own. He wondered where hers began and his ended.

Feyre let her eyes settle on Amarantha before anyone else, skipping over the Attor with something that Rhysand knew was fear, but that looked like distain.

The Attor was baring his teeth at her. He thought he was so big and bad, standing next to his sham of a queen, standing over a human girl with no weapons. Rhysand only prayed for the opportunity to rip him to shreds.

Feyre looked at Tamlin then, in that longing way of hers. Rhysand clenched his fists under his folded arms as he watched them. Amarantha bared her teeth in a smile, breaking the spell between them.

"Well, Feyre, your second trial has come," Amarantha cooed smugly. The way she said Feyre's name made Rhysand want to claw her throat out.

Amarantha crossed her arms, propping her chin on the hand that held Jurian's eye so that Jurian's lost soul could take a long look at the human girl.

"Have you solved my riddle yet?" she asked.

Feyre just stared her down, eyes narrow, lips sealed tight.

"Too bad," she wrinkled her face in mock disappointment. "But I'm feeling generous tonight."

The Attor boomed a mocking laugh, followed by a few laughs by his own ilk who lurked in the back of the room.

Feyre stiffened as the noise made its way towards her. _Don't let it alarm you. It's all designed to strike fear._ Rhysand silently whispered to her, but more to himself.

"How about a little practice?" Amarantha murmured to her.

Feyre kept her face neutral, her body slowly uncoiling with that hidden tension. She flicked her eyes over to Tamlin and there must have been something to be seen on her face. Rhysand could not see his face but, the way her jaw relaxed, her eyes opening wide…

Love. She looked at him with such adoration that it took Rhysand's breath away. Something broke in his chest as he watched them stare at each other.

Amarantha hissed.

Every eye turned to her own then, including those starlight eyes.

Amarantha was frowning at Tamlin, a raging fury beneath her gaze. "Begin," she snapped, waving a hand, her eyes still burning into the side of Tamlin's face.

The entire floor shuttered. Rhysand managed to keep his feet under him as what felt like an earthquake rippled through the room. The crowd bobbed as others were not so swift. Feyre's knees wobbled with the tremor, and she threw her arms out as she attempted to keep upright.

The gilded stones in the middle of the room, the _floor_ of the room was sinking, taking Feyre downward with her. Only half of the floor was sinking downward, and the other half of the floor was… moving. Revealing the other half of a pit that was quickly being created in the center of the golden room. Amarantha's cronies cackled as she struggled to find her footing, but as she caught her balance, she caught Tamlin's gaze, her face filled with bitter determination.

Cauldron, she was perfect in her defiance.

As the floor settled beneath her, she looked around her, taking in her new cage. The half of the floor that hadn't sunk in with her had disappeared into the side of the pit, revealing a cage in which a red-haired male lay chained to the center of the floor. Rhysand knew this was his cue, and with little ceremony he slipped into Lucien's endlessly miserably mind, waking him from his induced slumber. Lucien's eyes flew open with terror, staring up in the ceiling. The mechanical eye spun, whirling around the room as he attempted to get his bearings.

"Lucien," Feyre gasped quietly, horror filling her face as she looked at the red-haired male.

Rhysand slid her gaze to her, watching as she fought the urge to slip through the gate that separated them.

Faeries around the room began to murmur, small amounts of money again being passed from one another as they made bets. They knew that Amarantha had use his bet as an excuse for punishment and ignored her proclamation against gambling. Afterall, they knew that issue with Rhysand's gambling had not been the act but more… who he had bet on.

Still, this time he did not dare.

Feyre wondered for a moment if he had bet on her again, and some small part of him felt guilty that he had not this time.

Feyre glanced up at the crowd surrounding her, settling her eyes on a group of red-headed faeries gathered in the corner. She stiffened slightly, bitterly hating Lucien's brothers but… the faeries she had stiffened against were not Lucien's brothers. Cousins perhaps, if Rhysand had to guess by the color of their hair. Rhysand knew exactly what cell he had unceremoniously thrown the Vanserra brothers in the night before.

She scanned the crowd, looking for more red-headed family members but, of course, found none.

Feyre let her eyes settle on Amarantha, who peered down at her with a sour expression.

Under Feyre's gaze, Amarantha bowed her head mockingly, then waved at the wall behind Feyre. Words, scrawled in a curving and beautiful script appeared on the gleaming stone wall. "Here, Feyre darling, you shall find your task. Simply answer the question by selecting the correct lever, and you'll win. Select the wrong one to your doom. As there are only three options, I think I gave you an unfair advantage." She snapped her fingers, her red hair shining like a burgundy flame under the golden light. Something metallic groaned above them all, and Rhysand looked up in horror. "That is, if you can solve the puzzle in time."

Two, giant grates growled above them all, spikes covering almost every possible inch of metal. It had begun a slow descent as Amarantha snapped her fingers. The spikes glowed a dull red from the candles and torches that been making the gilded walls glimmer so.

 _Shit._ He could almost hear Cassian's growl of disgust next to him. Why did he always find Cassian's spirit next to him during these trials?

Feyre's eyes widened and then she whirled to Lucien, realizing why there were _two_ gates with no small amount of terror. She would have to watch as Lucien was impaled by the spikes, just as she was squashed on the other side of the gate.

Lucien began pulling at his chains.

 _Think, Feyre. Pull it together._ Rhysand prayed to his savior silently.

Feyre turned lastly to the wall that Amarantha had gestured too, her precious time already slipping from in between her fingers.

Amarantha had not known she was illiterate. Rhysand had been careful to keep her from knowing that fact, a fact that he had picked up from the moment Amarantha had given her that ridiculous riddle in the first place.

Fate twisted around them in mysterious ways.

As she stared at the lengthy, overly wordy riddle, panic took over. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking by her sides as she realized she would have to read the transcription.

The riddle itself was a tricky, mess of words, something that would be difficult for even the cleverest faerie to get. Rhysand would know. He had written it himself.

Rhysand let his eyes float away from her for a moment to look at Tamlin with a glare. Amarantha was staring down at the girl was satisfied smirk. Tamlin's eyes were wide with horror, horror that was transcribed as he met Rhysand's eyes from across the room. This riddle, the _three grasshoppers_ was somewhat a joke between the two of them in the time that they had still been friends. Tamlin had a passion with making rowdy limericks and riddles, mostly dirty and always a challenge. Rhysand had created this riddle as a sort of challenge, a mockery of the relationship between Livana and Tamlin…

The two grasshoppers were Rhysand and Tamlin, the butterfly, Livana. Tamlin had never been able to get the answer correct, it had driven him mad for weeks until Rhysand had spelled it out for him.

It had been a proud accomplishment of Rhysand to beat the young lordling at his own game. Tamlin had obviously shared this riddle with Amarantha sometime during, or before the war. Traitor, yet again.

They looked away from each other, and instead looked down at the shaking girl that held their fate in her hands.

She was able to read some words but… they consisted of mostly _and_ , _but,_ and _the._ Sweat dripped down her face, her lips trembling as she realized she would have to sound out each word. Feyre let her eyes flicker to Amarantha, wondering who had told her she couldn't read.

"Something wrong?" Amarantha purred, raising an eyebrow. Amarantha giggled as it clicked, finally, that Feyre was illiterate.

Feyre attempted to slow her breath, recognizing the vicious twist of fate as Rhysand had before her.

Lucien was cursing next to her, and Rhysand willed him to be silent.

Feyre turned to him, hoping he would read the riddle out loud to her but… it was too far. Lucien couldn't so much as turn his head to see more than a small portion of the riddle.

She was alone.

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself, Rhysand seeing her fate before her. He could help her… he could tell her the answer, but he had to wait for the right moment. Amarantha was wary of him, especially when it concerned the human girl in the pit below them. He couldn't risk reading it, ruining the magical agreement that bound Feyre and Amarantha's agreement.

The grate sunk further until Rhysand could barely see her through the metal. She was taking gasping breaths, her panic immobilizing her. Rhysand couldn't breathe either, he could feel the heat of the metal against his face. _Just answer it, just answer it, just answer it._

"Answer it!" Lucien yelled for him; his voice panicked as well.

Feyre's eyes were filling with tears as she stared up at the riddle. Whispers swelled around them all, frenzied and panicked.

Rhysand thought his heart would explode in his chest. He felt Helion's eyes on him from across the room.

She turned her eyes away from the riddle then, staring at the letters that stood sentry above the levers that selected her answer. I, II and III. Three was the answer, Rhysand wanted to tell her. If he just told her the answer he very well could doom them all… but he just hoped he could guide her hand. _Just pick one, Feyre._

Her breath came out in gasps.

"Feyre!" Lucien cried, panting as sweat streamed down his face from the glow of the metal spikes.

It was growing close, so terribly close to her, only a full body length above them now…

She was trying to spell out the words above her.

And then she was closing her eyes, debating saying goodbye. Resigning herself to her fate.

 _Fuck, just pick a goddamned number._ Rhysand wanted to scream at her. He couldn't _breathe._ Her panic was choking him.

"Just pick one!" Lucien moaned. His cousins laughed above him, no doubt blaming him for his family's fate.

That seemed to snap her out of her daze, her panic. She lifted a hand, staring at the three numbers, meaning nothing to her. She just had to choose, she was the one who had to make the choice and Rhysand could guide her but… The gate sunk closer and closer by the second.

 _Two. Two was a lucky number, like Tamlin and me. It was two._

She made her choice, and Rhysand swallowed down the jealousy that threatened to overtake him. She was resigning herself to her.

 _I could gladly, willingly, fanatically believe in a Cauldron and Fate if they would take care of me._

Rhysand almost laughed out loud. If there was one thing that he had learned in his long, miserable years was that Fate took care of no one but herself.

She reached for that second lever, and Rhysand shot a flicker of pain down that bond, shouting _no_ in his mind before she could touch the stone.

Feyre hissed, withdrawing away from that cursed lever. She opened her palm, staring down at the slitted eye that connected them both through a bond that Rhysand did not yet even understand.

He twisted the bond, slipping out of his own body for a moment to look at her through that eye. He narrowed his gaze as he looked up at the goddess above him.

She blinked at it in confusion for a moment, then glanced up at the sinking grate with misery.

She sealed herself and reached for that retched middle lever and Rhysand did it again, this time stopping her hand in its tracks.

 _Listen to me, darling._ He wanted to purr at her.

She stared, and he prayed that Amarantha would not be paying close attention.

Feyre reached this time towards the first lever, only reacting slightly to the pain that shot up her arm.

She took a deep breath.

Then, she reached _finally_ for the third lever. As her hands met with the smooth stone, Rhysand slipped back into his own mind, praying to anyone who would listen that the answer to the riddle had not been skewed over the years.

 _Three_. Three was the answer. It had been a joke, a joke to Tamlin, a thinly veiled threat that if he pursued his sister that it would never just be two of them… but _three._ Rhysand, Tamlin and Livana.

Feyre looked up, searching for his gaze through the grate, her hand wrapped around the correct lever.

As their eyes met, she let go of the third lever, reaching once for the first. Experimenting. When she reached for the first lever he was forced again to stop her hand in her tracks.

Annoyance slipped through him, but he kept his face bored. _Trust me, lovely girl. Please._

She reached again for the third, staring up at him. He looked away, hoping she would do the same.

 _I can only trust him, conceding to my hopelessness._

The spikes were only a foot or so above her head now. Sweat dripped down her face and arms, smearing the paint down her body.

"Feyre, please!" Lucien begged from nearby.

Shaking, hopeless… but determination filled her, slipping through her and into Rhysand. She closed her eyes, gripping that third lever with purpose and then… she pulled.

Mercifully, the grate only a foot from her head ground to a stop. Silence filled the room.

Lucien sighed with relief.

Rhysand let his hands drop to his side and then with a thought stuffed them into his pockets. They were shaking.

 _I won. I…_

The grate began to raise back into the ceiling, the taking the burning heat with it. Feyre panted, her hand still gripping the salvation that was the stone lever.

The floor began rising, lifting her back into the gilded chamber, but her knees wobbled weakly as she was forced to let go of that lever.

 _I couldn't read, and it had almost killed me._

Feyre's miserable pride crushed through him and she sunk to her knees, covering her face with her hands.

She was falling apart, she had won, she had beat this bloody challenge and yet… this was the first-time pieces of the beautiful girl on the floor before them had started to break off.

No. She would win. She would beat all these challenges, whether it broke her or not… because if she didn't, Rhysand wouldn't be able to put her back together. She wouldn't be there so that he could teach her to read, she wouldn't be there so that he could make her strong, train her. Rhysand would never let anyone humiliate her again… if only they could get through these trials, Under the Mountain.

As Feyre's eyes filled with tears, Rhysand grasped that bond, sending painful determination through the hand that held their bargain.

 _I would never free Tamlin, or his people._

Rhysand wanted to roar at her, pull her up. But most of all, he wanted to pick her up, to pull her back together.

He shot another painful order through the bond again, giving up on all pretenses of this mysterious bond between them.

Before he could stop himself he murmured in her mind, down that bond, clawless.

 _Don't let her see you cry._

 _Put your hands at your sides and stand up._

Feyre remained on the floor, her face covered by her hands, frozen to the floor.

 _Stand. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing you break._

She tried to move but… Rhysand helped. He didn't control her, not completely, but rather gave her the strength to stand upright.

When the ground stopped moving, and Amarantha stared down at the human girl who had just beat two of her deadly tasks, Feyre stood before her, her own strength holding her upright, her eyes void of the tears that had threatened to overflow moments before.

 _Good. Stare her down._ Rhysand ordered her.

 _No tears. Wait until you're back in your cell._

And she did. She stared her down, even though her traitorous mind murmured over and over: _I should be dead, I should be dead._

Amarantha's face was tight and pale. Furious and… fearful.

 _Count to ten. Don't look at Tamlin. Just stare at her._

She obeyed, holding on to that bond between them, perhaps the only thing that tethered her to sanity as well. Sobs threatened to escape but... she pushed them down.

Feyre held Amarantha's cold and cruel gaze, no triumph on her face but just… fierce determination.

Rhysand didn't imagine the sliver of fear that snuck out from Amarantha's fortressed mind.

She counted to ten.

 _Good girl. Now walk away. Turn on your heel._

Feyre did. She turned away from Amarantha. _Good. Walk towards the door. Keep your chin high. Let the crowd part. One step after another._

Feyre left the room, meeting her guards at the stone entryway, her head high, her eyes dry. A queen. No, an empress. She looked like nothing less than the ruler of all things. A blessing from the Mother. The maker of her own fate.

As she held on to her fragile sanity, gripped the bond between them Rhysand whispered in her mind. _One step after another. One step after another. One step after…_

He chanted it to her, the guards keeping their distance.

When she reached her cell, and Rhysand was distracted by the roar of the crowd as they slowly exited behind her, he went silent, dropping the bond.

Even without a steely grip on the bond, he felt as she sunk to the floor of her cell, tears finally overflowing.

* * *

Whoo. Happy Update everyone :)

As usual, tell me what you think in a review 3


	18. His Tongue Against Her Skin

Ayy! Hi guys, I bring you a sad, but also somewhat amusing chapter.

Our story is really winding down, and I'm sorry I take so long to write but I hope it's worth the wait?

Regardless, please enjoy the rest of Rhysand's story and as usual leave me a review! I love hearing what you think.

P.S. I would love it if someone would beta my story for me, I know there are more typos and grammatical errors than I can manage on my own. If you're interested, please let me know!

Sincerely, TurtleSteed :)

P.S.S. Remember, not all of this content is mine, and most of Feyre and Rhysand's exchange is just slightly changed from the book to reflect Rhysand's POV. (So please, remember to credit the queen!)

* * *

Feyre was breaking. Perhaps some part of her had already been broken by the cruelty of Amarantha's court, from looking death in the eye but now the fragile part of her that had remained whole was shattering. The part of her that held her soul, the part of her that contained the girl who had painted a night sky on a beat-down dresser was slipping away.

After Feyre had beaten that second trial and stared down the Red Queen in pure defiance, the crowd had erupted in whispers, laughter, unease. One trial was left. The hope that Rhysand had pushed to solidify by forcing Feyre to remain defiant and strong against the queen was blooming at an impossible rate. He had pushed his way back out of Feyre's head, trying with every ounce of his being to bask in the victory. But to his dismay, all he could feel in that gilded room was her panic, her misery from behind the barriers of the bond. She had stared Amarantha down because he had asked her to. She had faked her defiance at his command. And her misery was threatening to choke him, even now that he had pushed his way out of her head, away from the bond.

After Feyre had left the room, Amarantha remained seated, her face dark. Her hands, shaped like claws, gripping the arms of the throne. Lucien, freed as soon as Feyre had pulled on the saving lever,had scrambled to his feet but smartly remained nearby. His face remained pale, his scar stark against his skin. None of his family members had been freed yet from Amarantha's prison.

The crowd uncertainly waited a few moments after Feyre was escorted from the room before slowly marching towards the singular exit of the gilded room. Rhysand kept his arms crossed over his chest, his face carefully bored and unamused.

One…

Two…

Three…

 _Hisssssssssssss…_

The noise coming from deep in Amarantha's throat was more inhuman than anything Rhysand had ever heard from a High Fae in his long lifetime.

The room again hushed, courtiers freezing where they stood as they had attempted to leave the room. It was a strange collection of High and Lesser Fae alike, their clothing mostly the dark fashion of Amarantha's court but with a few smatterings of the preferred colors of the other High Court's of Prythian.

No matter the color on display, the arched ears, green skin or clawed fingers, the tension on their faces was the same as they each turned to look at their Sovereign Witch.

The hissing faded into the echoing silence of the room, and the red-headed Queen stood before her Court.

"Lucien." She spoke softly, her dark eyes burning.

Lucien approached Amarantha quietly, a hand rubbing slowly over the red marks on his wrists from where he had pulled against the restraints. The fox mask looked like fire under the glowing light. When he stood only a few feet before the Queen he fell to his knees before her. Tamlin's eyes were glued to his fallen form from his perch behind Amarantha.

"Your Majesty." His voice shook in a way that could be mistaken as reverent, but Rhysand's own ability picked apart the malice that laced his words.

Amarantha took a step forward, her silvery gown sweeping around her feet and bent down slightly over the bowed man on the floor. Her hair fell around her face as their faces came so close it looked as though they would kiss. As Rhysand watched, a look of vague panic crossed over Tamlin's own masked face, and he sidestepped around Amarantha's wooden throne before seeming to catch himself. He wiped the expression from his face but remained nearby.

Fast as a whip, her hand shot out and gripped Lucien's face between sharp fingers. Rhysand did not miss the shiver that trembled across Lucien as she touched his scars.

The scene was so like the scene that had taken place fifty years ago that Rhysand to blink, to ensure that he wasn't slipping into a memory.

" _Ah, fiery emissary. The 'traitor negotiator'. I welcome you to my court Under the Mountain… I hope it is everything you thought it would be." Amarantha cooed from her newly wrought bronze throne, the thorny crown newly wrought and heavy upon her head. Rhysand stood nearby, his expression dark. He had not yet found his place in this new court, was still coming to terms with the loss of his court, his friends, the death of half of his Court of Nightmares. He had just started on his plan of becoming the lover of the Red Queen, a path that he was not sure he wanted to follow._

 _Lucien had arrived just a few moments ago to the throne room of Amarantha, the Red Queen. Rhysand had to grasp a vague memory of Lucien, and his connection to Tamlin. The world was heavy, like walking through waist deep water. It was hard to remember much of anything before being trapped under this godforsaken mountain._

 _Lucien had pursed his lips as he took in the atmosphere around him, many cruel courtiers from Rhysand's own Court of Nightmares, the other large majority of the crowd part of Amarantha's Hybern friends. Only Beron, Rhysand and Helion's courts had bent the knee to the new Queen. Lucien's amber eyes flickered back to the Queen as she finished speaking, his red-orange hair gleaming from the long braid down his back. Rhysand supposed he was handsome in a way, mostly in the way that his face obviously took the prominence of his features from his mother. He touched his mind briefly, pushing away Lucien's cobweb of a barrier. He felt the relief at the lack of his family's presence Under the Mountain on this night._

" _I can assure you, Your Majesty, that your court meets my expectations and more." Lucien said dryly, the disdain clear on his face._

 _Amarantha frowned at him, a small expression that was ruined by a small tug at the corner of one of her lips._

 _Rhysand flicked a piece of lint from his tunic, apprehension buried down deep with the rest of his dubious emotions._

" _Hmm." She murmured, a red-tipped finger resting over her pink lips. "I suspect your visit is not one paved of nugatory intentions though, emissary. Tell me, what brings you before my throne?"_

 _Lucien sketched a small bow, his instincts well developed under many years traveling from Court to Court. He had friends in every court except for the Night Court, of course, perhaps the one place that could have helped him read this… situation._

" _I come for decorous negotiation, My Queen. Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court wishes me to bring you the best of wishes concerning your recent coronation."_

 _Whispers spread across the room. Only a few weeks had passed since Pythian had fallen to Amarantha's forces, and so few High Lord's had yet to yield, despite the inevitable. Perhaps her court wondered if yet another High Lord was about to fall._

 _Amarantha smiled at his words, her fingers pressed together as she looked down at him._

" _You will have to tell my dear Tamlin how lovely it is to hear of his approval of my rise to power. However, I cannot help but notice the careful use of your words. I suspect that this is not a friendly visit at all, nor one filled with 'decorous negotiation.' If it was, I would think that my green-eyed High Lord would be here to discuss things with me himself." Her eyebrows rose as she finished speaking._

 _Lucien shifted slightly under her dark gaze. "My High Lord is unfortunately unavailable at this moment, but he has sent- "_

" _Ha!" Amarantha chortled, interrupting. "Unavailable, as he crawls back to his manor house to lick his wounds."_

 _A few amused giggles and snorts echoed from the crowd around them. Rhysand did his best to keep his face impassive._

 _Lucien closed his mouth with a sharp click as his teeth snapped together. His annoyance was beginning to show in the way he held his jaw._

 _Amarantha allowed the crowd to mutter to itself for a moment, before raising a red-tipped hand. The room instantly quieted._

" _Well then, emissary. Tell me, what do you want to negotiate?"_

 _Lucien placed both his behind his back, his chest puffing out slightly as he blew a piece of his hair out of his face. "My High Lord Tamlin, as I previously stated, sends you his best regards. He sent me to discuss the terms a proposed peace treaty. Perhaps we could speak somewhere more private…" His voice trailed off as he eyed Amarantha's court around him, his eyes settling on the Attor's winged shape behind Amarantha's throne._

" _No, I don't think so. I think anything you have to say to me can be said in front of my court." Amarantha grinned a wicked, toothy smile, resting her chin on a fist._

 _Lucien settled his auburn eyes on her again, his face twisting. "Fine. The terms of our proposed peace treaty state that Tamlin will acknowledge you as Queen of the Upper Courts of Prythian. No longer will he attack your boarders, or block trade to and from the human lands if you agree to allow him to his terms."_

" _And what are his terms?"_

" _His terms are that you allow him to remain High Lord of the Spring Court, allowing him to remain untouched and free from your interference in his rule."_

 _The crowd whispers rose and fell in a crescendo. Amarantha silenced them again with another raise of her hand._

" _And if I do not agree?" She lifted her red eyebrows._

" _Tamlin will continue you fight tooth and nail, flame against flame, until there is nothing left of you and your armies but ash."_

 _Rhysand could have rolled his eyes. What did Tamlin think he was? What a ridiculous fool. But Rhysand did not roll his eyes. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the Queen._

 _Amarantha roll her eyes for him. "Ridiculous. Tamlin has what, a few hundred soldiers against my thousands? These are empty threats. And to think that he wants me to allow him untouched while the rest of Prythian bows under my rule. I think not."_

" _If you think all we have is a few hundred soldiers then you are much mistaken, Your Majesty. Do you want this conflict to result in a bloodbath?" Lucien took a step towards her throne, a hand on the sword as his side. "If you do not agree to peace, if you are not willing to bend, this will result in slaughter. Do you want to rule over corpses as they lay in the fields? I know you lost your sister all those years ago, Amarantha. Think of the hundreds of thousands of brothers and sisters you would be slaughtering. Think of the faeries who love and are loved just as you loved her."_

 _Amarantha stood then, taking a few steps until she was only a few feet away from his face. The smirk on her face was gone, her eyes darker than ever. Jurian's eye was whirling in her ring._

" _Do not pretend to know what I felt for Clythia. I have leveled cities, moved mountains, ripped out the hearts of thousands of men for love of my sister. I will not bow to your 'High Lord'. I will bow to no one. Prythian is mine to rule, mine alone. And if Tamlin will not yield to me, I will destroy him as well." Her voice came out in a hiss._

 _Lucien drew his lips back, exposing his teeth to her, glaring at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. "Then you can crawl back into the shit-hole you came out of."_

 _A few gasps ignited throughout the crowded throne room._

 _Amarantha jumped at him then, her black dress spinning around her as she swiped her claws across his face. Her hair was wild around her, her crown crooked on her head as she drew back from him. Her white power was slithering around Lucien._

" _Attor, hold him." She ordered as Lucien fell to his knees, clutching the left side of his face. Blood was dripping through his fingers, dripping down to shadow his green tunic. As he heard the order, Lucien struggled to his feet, struggled to unsheathe his sword._

 _The Attor was on him before he could get his feet under him, holding both of his arms behind his back while another one of the Attor's ilk pinned his knees to the floor._

 _Lucien looked up at Amarantha through the blood dripping down his face. Part of his left eyebrow was gone, replaced with a red slash created by her nails._

" _Let go of me, you ugly bitch," Lucien growled through bared teeth, looking very much like a fox caught in a trap. Feral and desperate._

 _Amarantha just laughed quietly as she picked out a piece of skin from under her nail. As Lucien squirmed against his captors, she slowly approached him until her breath blew across Lucien's face. She gripped his face with her left hand while the right hung loosely at her side._

" _So handsome, little lord. I have heard of you even in my court, Lucien Vanserra. I heard that you loved a pretty little lesser fae from outside the palace. I heard how you cried when your father ripped her apart in front of you. I heard about how you killed one of your brothers as you fled from your birthplace. Do not talk to me about the love between siblings when you have murdered your own blood." Amarantha's voice was filled with bottomless wraith, her nails piercing the skin above his jaw._

 _She twisted his face to the side, examining the new slash across his left eye. "It's a shame to have a face as beautiful as yours marred as it is. I can see why Tamlin made you his emissary, I am sure you have many… friends in other courts. Not that it matters now, when all the courts are now mine."_

 _Lucien growled, thrashing actively now in his desperation to escape._

" _Still, though, now that your face is flawed I see no reason why I shouldn't do this."_

 _Amarantha gripped his face between her hands more tightly even now, and with her right hand she was pressing her fingers into his left eye- the crowd was gasping- Rhysand had to look away in his disgust but he heard a pop mixing with Lucien's screams and then-_

 _Rhysand looked back again to see Lucien laying on the floor, his hand over his left eye socket, groaning lowly. He shifted his gaze to Amarantha who gripped a white bulb with a long pink tail in her bloodied hand, smiling at it like it was a new toy. The Attor was standing behind Lucien, gripping his shoulders, his barb tail flicking behind him in satisfaction._

 _Rhysand's stomach turned as he realized the bulb was Lucien Vanserra's eye. His left eye._

 _Someone was retching in the back corner of the throne room._

 _Amarantha simply held up the bulb by the pink tail, examining it curiously before tossing it to the Attor._

" _Drop him off outside of the Manor gates. Make sure you give Tamlin his eye, as a memento of my love."_

Rhysand blinked, forcing his mind back into the present.

"Ah, fiery emissary. 'Traitor negotiator'." Amarantha mocked him, her red lips spread into a smirk.

Another shudder rattled through Lucien as she held him by his face.

"I have good news for you, Vanserra. It appears that your friendship with the little slut was enough to save you. However, I urge you to reconsider. Your relationship with his human girl is unnatural, alarming. Relations between the two species are barbaric. Look where it has landed you. First, under the weight of an ash whip and then second under the heat of burning spikes." Amarantha cooed at him, her silvery gown drawling all attention to her in the gilded room.

Lucien said nothing, his face still pale, his eyes wide. Both were fixed on Amarantha's face.

"I know that you have a history of loving those who are beneath your breeding. I know that it has led you to circumstances ending in blood, pain, misery. So, Lucien Vanserra, I urge you to reconsider your friendship with my plaything. And perhaps, reconsider your relationship with your family. Eris tells me that you are quite missed." Her lips spread in a cruel grin.

 _Missed indeed_ , Rhysand couldn't help but think to himself. Missed in the way you miss your pulse when it's no longer pushing blood through your veins.

Amarantha waved her free hand, not looking away from Lucien's face and clanking filled the room as jailers arrived from the singular entrance. They were carrying Beron, The Lady of the Autumn Court and Lucien's four red-headed brothers between them. As the Vanserra family were thrown to the floor behind Amaranth and Lucien, Amarantha glanced briefly at Rhysand, before turning her gaze fully on Lucien.

Order taken, Rhysand brushed his power against their minds one-by-one, awakening the family.

"Again, Lucien, thank the Mother that your little 'human friend' was clever enough to survive my second trial as entirety of your family was saved by her choice of lever." Amarantha dropped his face then, shoving him away from her. Her blood tipped hand hung at her side, she held it carefully, so no drops touched her dress. She turned away from him, waving her other hand at the crowd in a dismissive gesture even as she called over her shoulder in Lucien's direction, "Perhaps now would be a great time to start giving a shit."

Rhysand watched as Lucien examined his families faces, skimming over his brothers and father, but his golden and russet eyes settled on his mother as she was helped to her feet by Beron himself. _What the hell was that? And what does Amarantha want with the Autumn Court?_

Beron looked just as confused as Rhysand felt, but as Beron settled his burning eyes on Rhysand's face from across the room, ignoring his son entirely, Rhysand knew exactly who he blamed. Was this Amarantha's play? To turn Beron against Rhys?

Foolish, if so, as Rhysand and Beron had never been _friends_. They barely tolerated each other. Beron was much to petulant for Rhysand's taste. It didn't make sense really, if that was her move. Rhysand had always been the most isolated, the male with the least allies.

So perhaps that exchange was indeed about Lucien… was she pushing him towards his family? And if so, _why?_ Was it just another one of Amarantha's games?

Perhaps it was just another way for Amarantha to play with Tamlin, since he remained ever so stoic as she tortured the human girl he supposedly loved.

Rhysand stewed over this as he watched the crowd empty from the throne room, and as they headed to begin the evening's activities, his mind was being shadowed by a storm cloud, a hurricane of misery from the bond ever present in his mind.

He had placed a shield around the bond the moment he felt her sink to the floor of her cell, her tears shimmering and unbearable in his mind. His shield was usually enough to stop the torrent of her emotions against his own, unless he brushed a finger over the small tattoo across his ribs. This time was different. Her misery came in waves, piercing and agonizing across the bond. It was dulled somewhat by the shield, but it struck a chord in him so deep that he shifted uncomfortably as he watched Amarantha disappear through the gilded doors of the room.

He stood to the wayside of the crowd, not willing to follow this time unless he was called for. There would be yet another party tonight, but right now, it was all he could do to rein in some instinctive part of him that wanted nothing more than to run to the prison, lift her in his arms and fly away until nothing was left behind them both.

The crowd emptied, and only a few stragglers remained chatting as he stood on the gilded floor, looking solemnly up at the spiked chandeliers above their heads. The spikes had again begun to glow red-hot from the faelight.

Helion glanced at him before strolling off after a blonde-haired faerie who was staring at him intently by the doors. Rhysand held his gaze for a minute, not needing a mind connection to read his mind.

 _One more task. Don't throw away our shot._

He breathed a deep breath, the remnants of her scent just echoing on the edges of the room. Forcing himself to pull himself together, he started towards the door.

One foot after another, just as he had purred into Feyre's mind as she struggled to keep it together. _One foot after another. One foot. And then the other._

It was only the weight of the promise that show on his tattooed knees that lead him from the room, leading him towards the training pitch and away from the prison.

* * *

A few hours later, Rhysand's limbs felt heavy and wonderfully languid as he sat on his favorite leather couch. He had not brought Feyre with him this evening, unsure that he could look her in the face as her misery beat him down. He had done this to her. He had bought her this fate from his own stupidity, and it was his own fault that she was breaking. It was his own fault that her misery continued to beat against him, smother him until he could no longer think.

Amarantha was wearing a mustard yellow dress, positively hideous combined with the color of her hair and even more so when mixed with the expression on her face. She was sourly clutching the finger bone around her neck with a free hand, her legs crossed and her other hand tapping against the bronze of her throne. Tamlin sat next to her, bland as usual, but Rhysand felt the smugness seeping from his consciousness. Perhaps his mouth was set in a little smirk as well, not that Rhysand gave two shits about Tamlin's mouth.

The crowd moved with purpose tonight, faeries gathering in small groups around the room to whisper about their near savior. Feyre. _Feyre._ The human girl. Her love would save them all.

 _To Feyre._ Whispers and thoughts alike scattered in the air. Wine glasses pressed discretely against each other, cheeks kissed, and hands squeezed among friends.

All cheering for the girl who was floors below them, breaking into a thousand pieces in the bowels of the mountain.

Rhysand took a small sip of his wine, wishing the same hopeful spirit would fill him as well. He focused on the silver buckle of his right boot, his leg crossed over his knee.

The world faded for a moment, and _again_ he was being dragged into her mind through the bond.

He couldn't stop it any more than he could his own heart beating.

 _I couldn't beat her. I am going to die under this godforsaken mountain. I am nothing but a foolish, illiterate little girl. This room will be my tomb. This room will be my tomb. This room will be my tomb. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The walls are going to crush me._

He struggled against her hold, pulling himself back up the cliff that was her mind, his grip slipping but slowly he pushed himself back into his own mind.

Bless the mother. She was panicking, letting Amarantha win. She was fighting against one of the cruelest and most wicked of Hybern's commanding fae generals and _winning_ , but she was going to let her win because she had needed a little _help._ She had worked so hard, been so defiant, held her head high in a room in nothing by a few thin strips of clothing but now…

Perhaps it was too much. Perhaps Rhysand had asked too much, taken too many pieces of her in some foolish plan to save his own people and now… now she was breaking.

That was enough. With a shameful swallow, he downed the rest of his wine and stood hastily.

Before he could change his mind, his feet were pulling him from the room, through those throne room doors. He didn't know if he was being watched as he left, and he didn't particularly care.

When he rounded the corner down a random, abandoned hallway he seized his power and winnowed just down the hall from the prison. The bawdy shouts of Amarantha's foolish prison guards echoing from the doorway to the antechamber. He huffed a breath at the sudden exertion, making a fist a few times as he willed his head to stop spinning.

When the floor stopped trying to move out from under him, he pulled up the remnants of his power, wrapping shadows and night around him until he was little more than a wraith.

He slipped into the antechamber, past the guards who were singing a ridiculous ballad about a female with a peg leg, skipping from shadow to shadow and willing his power to stretch just a little bit farther as he slid directly through the door. His power was still immense, much more than the other High Lord's, which was something to be thankful for. But the consequence of his constant wards over Velaris and mind-bending left his stamina with something to be desired.

With horror, he felt a quick pulse down the line as she was pushing against the bond that connected them through the bargain. No, not pushing against the line but… being pulled down it. Either she was slipping voluntarily, or her panic was pulling her, but less of her was in her own body than was contained in whatever the bond was.

He practically ran down the hall of the jail, and without thought faded himself into nothing so that he could step through the door of her cell.

She was in the fetal position in a corner, both of her pale, human hands covering up her face. They had left her in that soiled set of clothing she was in for the second task, but she had tossed off her muddy boots and her pale toes curled against the stone floor. She had to be terribly cold, but her body only shook with the force of her sobs. Glistening tears escaped from in between her fingers, dripping down her tattooed hand.

He approached her without hesitation, stopping when he was only a foot away from her. The instinct to pull her into his arms was nearly unbearable.

"Still weeping?" He managed, his voice coming out stronger than he felt.

The only sign that she heard him was a shuttering breath that she drew in between her lips. Her fragile, human heart stuttered as she was ravaged by another sob.

"You've just beaten her second task. Tears are unnecessary." He lied, twisting his fists at his side while he tried not to touch her. _Look at me. I promise, if you only look at me, I will keep you safe._ But he didn't say that. He was nothing but a dirty liar, but he figured the lie he spoke was better than the lie he kept within.

Feyre just sobbed harder as he spoke.

Rhysand laughed softly, a cruel, non-laugh that started from deep in his belly. _Tears are unnecessary._ Liar, liar, liar. His own tears threatened to choke him as he fought against the pounding torrent of misery. They had lost so much, and worse, they had more to lose.

Before he knew what he was doing, he fell to his knees in front of her, grasping her hands in his own. Feyre fought against him, opening her swollen eyes and trying to push him away from her.

She stared at him with those burning, star-borne blue eyes, swollen and red rimmed. The tears had left her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and red from the pressure of her hands, the biting of her lip. Her wrists were damp where he grasped them, her skin hot beneath his own.

Her face ravaged by her tears took his breath away. He could hardly think as her eyes bore into his own, he only knew that he wanted her to stop crying, so he unleashed his hold on the night filling the room with calm, unbroken night sky.

He felt the awe, the attraction she felt as she looked at him, a feeling that she could not hide with them bound so closely. Another tear trickled down her face, unbidden with the absence of her hands. Sad, she was so desperately sad.

As Rhysand made up his mind, he gave her a lazy, taunting smile that made her heart stutter audibly in his ears even as she tried to pull away.

Rhysand leaned in, brushing his lips over the spot just above the tear and licked the falling tear away with precision.

Feyre froze beneath his grasp.

He changed sides this time, licking away a tear slipping down her left cheek this time, and then another creeping down her chin. Her tears were slightly salty, but still tasted desperately like _her._

Feyre stuttered a breath, a shiver trembling down her spine and across her limbs. Pleasure, burning and undeniable trembled down the bond.

Lastly, he followed a tear from down her cheek up to its source and as his tongue brushed against the damp ends of her lower lashes, she jerked away from him.

This time, the feeling that pushed down the bond was burning, undeniable fury.

He quickly let her go, and she scrambled away from him, into the corner of her cell that was farthest way from him. Gone was her misery, her desperation, her panic. The only thing he felt down the bond now was anger, and he quickly decided that was more manageable than the misery that had previously been choking them. He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips as she stared at him in disbelief.

Feyre wiped her face furiously with her hands. Rhysand smirked at her, amused despite himself.

Rhysand settled against the wall across from her, crossing his legs in front of him and his arms across his chest. "I figured that would get you to stop crying."

"It was disgusting," her voice came out hoarse. She wiped her face again.

"Was it?" Rhysand smiled, quirking an eyebrow at her. He gestured to his left palm, to where his mark was on her, "Beneath all your pride and stubbornness, I could have sworn I detected something that felt differently. Interesting."

"Get out," she growled, crossing her own arms across her chest. Her cheeks were flushed differently now that she was mad. It was quite flattering.

"As usual, your gratitude is overwhelming."

"Do you want me to kiss your feet for what you did at the trial? Do you want me to offer another week of my life?"

 _I would trade the world to have you kiss any part of me that you wanted, darling Feyre. I would trade every piece of me to have every week of my life with your eyes on my face._

"Not unless you feel compelled to do so," Rhysand purred, letting his voice become low and tempting.

Feyre fell silent, watching him quietly from the other side of the cell. He didn't feel a single ounce of desire trickling down the bond now. Perhaps he had imagined it before.

"Who would have thought that the self-righteous human girl couldn't read?" He finally taunted, wanting to hear her voice again. He was doing his best trying to stay out her thoughts, the bond enough violation that he felt he should try to spare her any extra.

"Keep your damned mouth shut about it."

"Me? I wouldn't dream of telling anyone. Why waste that kind of knowledge on petty gossip?" Rhysand knew his answer had little consequence now… Amarantha had most definitely noticed her difficulty with the riddle. It was likely she knew already, but he wasn't lying. There would be no more free information to his Queen about Feyre if he could control it.

And if, no, _when_ she came to his court to fulfill her end of their little bargain, it would be the first thing that he remedied. Feyre was much too clever to remain illiterate.

The stab of hatred that trembled down the bond took his breath away. "You're a disgusting bastard."

True. These words were terribly, miserably true. It didn't make her hatred any easier to bare, although he certainly deserved it.

"I'll have to ask Tamlin if this kind of flattery won his heart."

Rhysand watched her for a beat, then stood slowly, groaning as his muscles stretched painfully, remnants of his workout. Tight since he had sat still for too long.

He did not imagine the desire that trembled across the bond this time.

Unable to help himself, he flicked his eyes to her own as he straightened, giving her a long, satisfied smile. Perhaps she did want him the way he wanted her.

He knew more than anyone that the line between desire and dislike was a thin one.

Feyre exposed her teeth, almost hissing at him in a very faerie gesture. Rhysand wondered if she could feel the shiver that trickled down his own bones as he watched her.

"I'll spare you the escort duties tomorrow," he shrugged off the feeling, walking to the cell door. "But the night after, I expect you to be looking your finest." He grinned at her, wishing to all the world that he could parade her around like this. He liked the growling, fighting Feyre much more than he liked the drunk harlot who followed him through his nightly torture.

Feyre stared back at him, her pink lips set in a frown.

His heart pounded as her eyes ate him alive, and he paused before pushing through the door. "I've been thinking of ways to torment you when you come to my court," his voice was soft. "I'm wondering: Will assigning you to learn to read be as painful as it looked today?"

Before she could launch herself at him, he willed himself to become one with the shadows, not stepping through the door quite yet.

Feyre leapt to her feet the moment he disappeared, a wild howl escaping her lips. She gave her tray a halfhearted kick, sending her uneaten food to splatter against the wall, before turning to pace through the small space of her jail cell.

She scowled at the eye, feline and wide on the palm of her hand and hissed a line of curses so colorful that Cassian may have blushed.

Rhysand's chest shook as he held in his laughter, relief trickling down the top of his head reaching all the way to his toes. He watched her a few more moments, before slipping back through the wooden door of her jailcell.

When he had escaped the cell without the jailors being any the wiser, he practically whistled as he made his way back to the throne room.

Feyre may be breaking, struggling against Amarantha's hold but some fire remained in her.

Rhysand smiled to himself when he thought about the fact that the thing that brought her back from the edge was the feeling of his tongue against her skin.

* * *

You may actually get two chapters posted in one day... can anyone say Christmas in October? Haha!

*sipping apple cider* Happy fall, y'all.


	19. A Stolen Kiss

Hi again!

Attention, attention this is the longest chapter in this story yet. I thought about splitting it up but... nah. Just take your time with it.

Honestly, this chapter was the most fun to write. I'm sorry if there are a few run-on sentences that I failed to catch, when I am writing Rhysand's thoughts I sometimes get carried away. I think most of us think in run-on thoughts as opposed to full sentences.

Pleeeeease leave me a review. I shall be working on finish this story over the next week or so, so hopefully I will have it finished directly.

P.S. Does anyone else have an unhealthy obsession with Hamilton? I think I may have left some hints over my love for the musical over the past two chapters for the astute fan to find.

Enjoy.

Much love, TurtleSteed :)

* * *

Whatever happiness Rhysand had savored from pulling Feyre back into herself when she was falling apart slipped through his fingers like liquid starlight. She had spent the rest of the night after he left her cell cursing him, but the next day was quiet… unfeeling. And when Nuala and Cerridwan had fetched her for her evening parade around the throne room, she had barely fought as they cleaned, painted and clothed her. It was even worse when Rhysand came to lead her to the room with him. The fight that he had seen shimmering from her eyes after he licked away her tears had burnt out, leaving a plain of absolute nothingness in its wake.

For the first time, Feyre chugged the faerie wine he slipped into her hands without command. Like she had been waiting for it to save her, to let her forget and escape the world for just a few hours. The emptiness in her eyes, the blank daze of her stare haunted him day after day, night after night until he couldn't help but slip into her mind.

After nearly a week of minimal reactions, Rhysand had lay in his bed in the early hours of the morning, staring into the remnants of the fire in his fireplace. The bond was full of radio silence. Sometimes he would tug on it, just to make sure that there was something on the other side. Unable to bear it any longer, he rested a hand over the floral tattoo along his ribs, slipping his eyes closed.

Feyre was asleep right now, her thoughts little more than soft melodies as she slipped from scene to scene, idea to idea. Gently, he stretched across her mind, gathering the thoughts over the past days like a book. She had settled into… darkness. Nothingness. Somewhere safer, and certainly less painful than where she had been when she had still been fighting. She had stopped thinking about the riddle, stopping thinking about how she hated him, stopped thinking about Tamlin even.

 _I am not going to leave this mountain alive._ She thought that to herself, every minute of every day. It was her mantra, what she whispered to herself in the deep night when no one was watching her.

It was what she promised to herself, as if the thought of her death under the mountain was easier to bear than the idea of her survival.

Rhysand released his hold on her mind, and flipped onto his bank, shoving his palms into his eyes. How could he judge her when he had thought the same about himself for so long? How could he have allowed this to happen after _she_ was the one that had woken the fighting part of him again?

How could she think that her death would somehow be better than surviving?

* * *

Rhysand chewed over her thoughts and spent the next few days trying to drawl her back out of the dark cave she had fallen into. He mocked her whenever given the chance, let his eyes settle on her for too long. He paraded her especially around Tamlin, hoping that his emerald gaze would awaken something in her again. He forced her to dance one night until she could no longer stand, and then didn't let her dance at all for nearly four nights in a row. Neither made the difference. He let his fingers brush her cheeks before she drank the wine, he went entire nights without touching her at all. He spent nights insulting her, and other nights singing nothing but praise to her. He wondered if the other courtiers thought him ill. Even Amarantha seemed confused by his behavior and had loosened her hold on him.

Rhysand was brooding over his next plan for arousing _some_ kind of reaction in Feyre when Cerridwan's abyss of a mind brushed against the antechamber of her mind. He sipped a large gulp of whiskey down, letting it burn as he thought to her before she whispered to him.

 _I will be there to get her directly._

Cerridwan seemed unsure for a moment, and he couldn't understand the feeling permeating against his mind.

 _Yes, wraith?_

She again, thought nothing in the antechamber of her mind, but extended a mental hand to allow him to see… a scene.

Rhysand set his glass of whiskey down, and then slowly slid out of his mind into her own, leaving a carefully thick rope back into his own. The abyss of their minds were easy to fall into.

He was looking from Cerridwan's mind into a poorly lit hallway, his sight mostly veiled by… something.

He realized that Cerridwan and Nuala had their shadows shielding them, and her hand was covering Feyre's mouth, pinning her warm body against them. If anyone looked at the group, they would see nothing but a poorly lit tapestry hanging on the wall. Feyre was trembling.

"Yes," the Attor's grinding voice muttered, "good. She'll be most pleased to hear that they're ready at last."

A gravely voice answered, "But will the High Lords contribute their forces?" A small snort followed. One of Amarantha's Hybern soldiers, it seemed.

Their voices traveled closer and closer to the hidden trio, but Rhysand's mind was whirling. Will the High Lord's contribute their forces? Rage was burning through his chest, but he shoved it down so he could closer examine the scene.

"The High Lords will do as she tells them," the Attor snapped back at the solider. Rhysand heard the whisper of his tail against the stone floor.

"I heard talk from soldiers in Hybern that the High King is not pleased regarding this situation with the girl. Amarantha made a fool's bargain. She cost him the War the last time because of her madness with Jurian; if she turns her back on him again, he will not be so willing to forgive her. Stealing his spells and taking a territory for her own in one thing. Failure to aid in his cause a second time is another."

His cause? Rhysand felt his eyebrows raise, a peculiar sensation since his mind was mostly out of his own body.

The Attor hissed suddenly in response, jumping forward. Feyre trembled again between the wraiths, and Rhysand wasn't sure if it was him or Cerridwan that tightened their hold on her. "Milady makes no bargains that are not advantageous to her. She lets them claw at hope – but once it is shattered, they are her beautifully broken minions."

Rhysand was going to kill him one day. He didn't know when, and he hadn't decided how but he would hunt the Attor and his kind to the ends of the earth.

"You had better hope so," the pig-male replied, his voice steady. Unbothered.

Feyre relaxed slightly, as it seemed like they had passed, but Nuala pressed tighter against her mouth.

"And you had better hold your tongue," the Attor snapped. "Or Milady will do so for you – and her pincers are not kind."

"I am here on a condition of immunity from the king. If your lady thinks she's above the king because she rules this wretched land, she'll soon remember who can strip her powers away – without spells and potions."

A flicker of fear trembled up his spine. Feyre seemed to echo his sentiment, her trembled restarting anew in the wraith's grasps.

Rhysand pushed himself out of Cerridwan's mind as the Attor's voice became nothing more than a hollow echo along the stone. A few heartbeats passed. He was a fool to think that Amarantha was the worst beast they could face. If they survived this, freeing themselves from her hold, would they just have escaped one trap to fall into another? Would it be like escaping the housecats claws to be swallowed whole by a lion?

He stood, pouring himself another knuckle length of whiskey.

Cerridwan remained in the antechamber of his mind.

 _Do you want to know what Feyre said as soon as we allowed her to speak?_

Rhysand paused, surprised, his glass pressed to his lips.

 _She asked first, 'What was that? Who was that?' When we answered, 'trouble,' the next thing she asked was, 'Does Rhysand know?'_

Rhysand was frozen now. At least it was something. At least she had reacted, but he shouldn't be getting this tightening in his chest but-

 _Interesting. Thank you, wraiths. Send Nuala my love._

Cerridwan chuckled in his mind, before separating herself from him.

Later that night, even with her questioning, Feyre looked at him with unseeing eyes when he led her to the throne room. At least she had the sense to tremble when the Attor spoke.

Rhysand took a deep breath as he shoved the wine into her hands, letting it sweep her off into another land. At least she looked at him. At least she was here. That would be enough.

* * *

Two more days passed in which Rhysand listened quietly to the thoughts in the throne room, searching for some hint of what was coming, or when it was coming. The other half of his mind rested on Feyre as she swayed at this side, dancing when he commanded her, drinking without asking her. She was even building a tolerance to the faerie wine, no longer vomiting before the night was through. Sometimes it took two glasses of wine before the dazed look in her eyes took over the emptiness.

Amarantha had him service her, a less than spectacular evening, and he was thankful when it ended early. It seemed Amarantha was nervous too, so much so that even the power he tempted her with was met with numb nerves.

The night passed, Rhysand stared at the canopy above his bed, his fire again burning low in the hearth. He was using his power to create a night sky, trying to remember the exact outline of Velaris against the stars. It was more difficult than he had imagined so he instead tried to picture the exact view of the sky from the moonstone palace that was his fathers before his own. That was easier to do, even more easy for him to picture his mother's winged form sitting on the ledge of her balcony, the snow-kissed breeze blowing through her wild curls. He wasn't sure if it was a memory, truly, or just his mind trying to remember how his mother looked when he was a child before his mother and his father were constantly at his throat. He liked to remember his mother, sitting on the moonstone carved ledge, the sky-blue fabric blowing from the balcony, the white-capped mountains behind her. The way her voice fell and rose as she softly sung a melody from one of her favorite musicals. The way his father's deep voice boomed in chorus to her song from his nearby office, off-key but still beautiful when mixing with hers.

Rhysand had taken time to be sure that musical never stopped playing in Velaris, even after his mother's death. He had never been one for theater, preferring an active atmosphere like a party or training pitch, but the melody never ceased to bring tears to his eyes.

He pulled the memory forward of the way the orchestra pushed the music out into the world and pulled it back as the story demanded. He was never sure, and he could never get the lead of Velaris's largest theatre to admit it, but he suspected the musical had been written about his mother and father. The rise, and the fall, a love that was inevitable and doomed from the beginning. It was never in his father's nature to let something so beautiful, so treasured truly be free just as it was never in his mother's nature to settle into a world full of expectations and speculation. They were bad for each other, just as they were good in other ways.

Before he could overthink it, he had winnowed into the hallway just outside of the prison. He needed to be near her, he tried to deny it, but every inch of his body was aching from being away from that human girl who had awoken so much in him.

He slipped past a guard in the antechamber, the fire below the spit burning low as the guard snored into his desk. The air of the prison was cool against his skin, he had nothing on but a short pair of trousers, so he warmed the air around him just as he slipped through the door.

His head was spinning from the effort, but he ignored it, not even pausing as he made himself invisible, pushing past the door to Feyre's cell.

Feyre was awake, only a faint scent of faerie wine mixing with the soft pear and lilac scent. She remained in her paint, in her kohl, her dress the deep red of poppies drawn along the edge of a table.

Her fingers were playing absent-mindedly with a piece of the fabric barely covering her, her blue-grey eyes watching the soft burning faelight dance along the damp stones on the ceiling of her cell. They were empty, devoid of the sadness, the anger, the love that had once permeated every inch of her being. Her golden-brown hair fanned around her head like a crown.

Rhysand settled silently on the ground next to her. He lay on his back so that he too was staring up at the stones on the ceiling. He warmed the air, slightly, not enough she would notice, but enough that he hoped she would be slightly more comfortable.

After a few moments, he concentrated, letting the music flow through his mind, through the air around them, picking the soft flow of the air from a vent in the corner of her cell to carry the swell of music across them both. He didn't know why he did it, but something in him demanded that he shared this part of him, part of his life before he had been trapped below the mountain.

Feyre blinked, and Rhysand lost control for a moment, knowing that part of his night sky had spread across the ceiling of the room, but then it was gone again as he forced his gaze away from her.

When he opened his eyes again, hers were closed, but her pink lips were open slightly. Awe slide down the bond. He could have cried for joy, as it was the first feeling he'd felt down the bond since that day he had licked away her tears.

So, he closed his eyes again, letting the music flow through every aching, broken part of him, willing it to heal his soul and to spread that love and beauty and goodness over every broken inch of the human girl laying next to him.

Feyre curled up next to him, her eyes remaining closed. The scent of her breath on his cheek healed more of him than the music ever could.

They lay there, in the dark of her cell, allowing the music of Velaris to fill every inch, bringing joy and sorrow and hope and loss. Her breath on his cheek, her warmth so close was enough. He didn't know that he was also empty until he was filled, by her, by Feyre. He smelled the salty scent of her tears and opened his eyes just as the crescendo of the chorus flowed over them. She was silently crying, but when Rhysand reached down that bond, using every bit of self-control to not pull her towards him, mentally and physically, he felt no small amount of sorrow but also hope, and awe and love.

Something ached in his chest long and hard when the vision of emerald eyes shimmered down the bond. As the music peaked, rising into a wave that crashed over both of them, a sob shuddered through Feyre. He longed to reach out and touch her hand, more than anything he'd ever wanted before. When he turned his head to look at her, he was surprised to feel a warm tear slide down his cheek to brush against his peaked ear.

The music ended on one long, sorrowful and hopeful note that echoed through his chest.

Feyre trembled next to him, curled up, gripping her knees against her chest like they were a boat and she was sinking beneath the waves.

They lay there then in the silence, Rhysand with his eyes closed, listening to the wet sounds of her breathing until they no longer caught in her throat.

When he thought she was asleep, he sat up quietly, turning to look down at the little human who was creating and destroying him. He was surprised to see that her near celestial eyes were open, and she was staring at the tattoo on her palm, no anger or fear or misery on her face. Just… curiosity.

Like she knew he was the one who sent her this music.

He watched her watch the eye on her palm until his back ached, and just before he turned to head back to his own room, she carved two, short lines into the filth on her stone floor.

The message was clear.

Two days.

She had perhaps been paying attention to more than he gave her credit for.

Leaving her in the jail cell that night was one of the hardest things he had done in his long, immortal life.

* * *

They had one night. One night until their fate met them face first, either promising them the freedom they longed for or the misery they had already suffered for fifty years.

Rhysand couldn't think of what would happen to Feyre if she failed.

He wasn't sure he could go back to the way things were before she had quite literally fallen into his arms on Calanmai.

He supposed he would have to keep going on, for his court if not for anything else but… how could he? How would he survive? And he had promised himself he would fight for her. That he wouldn't let her do this on her own.

Rhysand decided to bet on the only fate he could bear to face: That Amarantha would be dead after tomorrow's challenge, that they would then have to turn their eyes to the threat that awaited them from the continent, that he would have to look Feyre in the eyes after he had destroyed her so thoroughly.

Feyre was beautiful, shining and pink in a dress of magenta, and while her face was gloomy as she watched him by the wall of the throne room, at least it had an expression. He had not yet let her drink the wine that would sweep her off into oblivion, honestly wondering if she would take matters into her own hands.

Rhysand had a pale green-skinned faerie on his lap, only selected over Feyre because he knew she had some connections to Hybern's continental army. He was subtly going through her mind while she stroked his hair, while his fingers brushed along her hips.

A small memory begged for his attention, and he grabbed it, pulling it forth until he could hear the voice of another snort-nosed grunt.

' _How do you think he plans on breaking down the wall? Surely, he plans on invading the human lands, with so few slaves left from the first war…'_

 _The green-skinned faerie sniffed at the grunt indignantly. 'You know the King has his ways. He can do the impossible with that book of his… there are whispers you know. Of the Cauldron. That he is working on reassembling it.'_

What? Reassemble the Cauldron? Shock permeated through him, but Rhysand was thrown from his investigation as a fire made of desire burned down the bond that connected Feyre's mind to his.

His eyes tore from the brown eyed faerie only for a moment, his eyes automatically falling on the magenta dress in the crowd. She had stayed by the wall, but she was stiff as a board. And next to her, wearing a leaf-green tunic and empty baldric stood the High Lord of the Spring Court himself, a single hand brushing the contours of her left hand.

Jealousy, a heat of a different kind, pushed down his face and chest and he hoped the faerie on his lap didn't notice as he flushed. When he saw that Feyre's eyes were glistening with tears, that roaring beast in his chest silenced just as soon as it started.

Tamlin pushed away from her, weaving through the crowd and very subtly turned his head to catch her eye from across the room, nodding slightly. _Follow me,_ his eyes were whispering.

Fool. Damn fool. Rhysand turned his eyes away from them, brushing his lips over the soft skin along the faeries neck while he searched for red hair in the crowd. Amarantha was laughing, being spun through the crowd by Helion, her navy dress whirling around her like an ocean wave. Distracted. Next, he spotted Eris and his brothers pressing two faerie females between them in a dark corner of the room.

Perhaps… perhaps Tamlin means to help her escape. Help get her out. Rhysand blew out a long breath, the female giggling on his lap, shifting slightly so she was pressed closer against him.

He tried to pry forward with his mind, trying to see Tamlin's intentions but his mind was so scattered, jealous and hopeful and he couldn't think.

 _Escape. Help her escape. May you love her enough to save her._

Feyre slipped around the room, disappearing between faeries. No one gave her a second look these days, at least not until Rhysand had thoroughly drugged her. She was old news to the crowd and the faerie wine had long made its way through the court. Tamlin disappeared through a small door in the back of the throne room, one rarely used except by a few of Amarantha's ilk. Rhysand's heart shuddered as she disappeared through the door behind him several seconds later.

Rhysand focused on breathing evenly, trying to ignore the hope and love that was shimmering down the bond. He traced a finger down the spine of the female in his lap, another hand through her hair. Her soft moan in his ear was almost enough to distract him.

The love and hope quickly transformed into something more burning, more intense than any sensations he had ever felt through their bond. Fury licked down his spine, stealing the breath from his own chest. Sure enough, the magical system that allowed him to know when someone was touching her sent him a magical zing past his right ear.

Really? He was going to drag her from the throne room on the last night of their trial and he wanted to _fuck her?_

Rhysand apologized, pushing the faerie off his lap. When he felt the pain mix with the pleasure down the bond, something that could only mean that Tamlin was _claiming_ her, Rhysand was across the room with no memory of how he'd gotten there.

He felt exactly where they were and he used his power to throw himself directly through the wall.

Tamlin had her against the wall, her dress pushed aside so that her bare breasts were pressed against his chest, a leg wrapped around his waist, his hands holding her hips against the wall. Tamlin was growling in her ear, the mark on her neck already red and visible in the dim light of the room. She was pulling his belt through his beltloops and fumbling with the buttons on his pants. There was paint smeared all over Feyre's body, every inch of his touches revealed for all to see. The ink was staining Tamlin's tunic, his hands, his lips.

Something was roaring in Rhysand's ears. He struggled to maintain control of his wings, of his claws, and coughed pointedly from behind them.

"Shameful," he purred, his voice low and deadly.

They both whirled, Feyre dropping from her perch on the wall as Tamlin let her go. Her bare feet hit the ground with a plop.

"Just shameful," he murmured again, stalking towards them, struggling against the urge to pin Tamlin to the wall. "Look at what you've done to my pet."

Feyre looked at him, no inch of shame or self-preservation on her face. The only thing that shown on her face was hunger, her cheeks flushed in a way he had never seen before, the flush extending down her neck and over her chest. Her nipples were hard against the cool air of the room, her breasts full in the dim light. She just panted, and Tamlin just looked at him, a mixture of rage and fear and want leaking through his shielded mind.

Normally, the view of Feyre dismantled this way would be something he would treasure, but the wildfire of loathing in his chest choked out every other emotion, every little bit of sense.

"Amarantha would be greatly aggrieved if she knew her little warrior was dallying with the human help," Rhysand crossed his arms, avoiding the tattoo carefully. He was sure _feeling_ her desire for his mortal enemy would not help him think any more clearly. "I wonder how she'd punish you. Or perhaps she'd stay true to habit and punish Lucien. He still has one eye to lose, after all. Maybe she'll put it in a ring, too."

Fear now, spread over Tamlin's face, ruling over the desire. He stepped away from Feyre, pulling his hands off her hips.

Feyre looked at him with a look so devastating that a deep pang joined the roaring in Rhysand's chest.

"I'm glad to see you're being reasonable," Rhysand murmured, hoping the shaking of his voice was only audible to him. Tamlin bristled but, "Now, be a clever High Lord and buckle your belt and fix your clothes before you go out there."

Tamlin looked at Feyre for a moment, and then, seeing no other choice, put his belt back on, pushed his erection to the side until the tent was not so noticeable (Rhysand choked back disgust), straightened his tunic, then ran a finger through his hair. Rhysand smirked and the paint covering Tamlin's tunic, his face, his hands disappeared like it was never there.

"Enjoy the party," Rhysand cooed at him, pointing the door, shifting his gaze back to his human girl.

Tamlin looked torn for a moment, turning back to Feyre for a moment. A heartbeat passed, and then he spoke softly, "I love you."

Tamlin was gone before Rhysand could shove his tongue back down his throat.

Feyre blinked slowly as the light blinded her for a moment, her heart still speeding along at an impossible rate, her breasts still bare to the world.

When the sense appeared to return to her face, she turned her starlight eyes on him with a glare.

Rhysand chuckled, his voice carefully restrained against the inferno inside. "If you're that desperate for release, you should have asked me."

"Pig," Feyre snapped, covering her breasts back up with the thin folds of her magenta gown.

Something broke in his chest. With little of his self-control left, he crossed the room in three quick steps, gripping her arms in his hands, pinning them to the wall behind her, pushing her until her back was against the wall, their faces only inches apart.

Feyre flicker of fear passed her face before being replaced by that delectable look of absolute defiance.

"Do you actually intend to put yourself at my mercy, or are you truly that stupid?" His voice was dripping with his rage. He struggled against that beast that hid beneath his skin, his hands shadowed claws above her head.

"I'm not your slave," Feyre spat at him, her breath brushing against his face.

"You're a fool, Feyre. Do you have any idea what could have happened had Amarantha found you two in here? Tamlin might refuse to be her lover, but she keeps him at her side out of the hope that she'll break him- dominate him, as she loves to do with our kind." Feyre turned her face away from her, unable to look him in the eye.

"You're both fools," he murmured, his breath uneven, the rage and jealous and fear escaping. "How did you not think that someone would notice you were gone? You should thank the Cauldron Lucien's delightful brothers weren't watching you." He was exposed to her, his voice real, no more riddles, no more lies crossing his lips into her ears.

Feyre turned back to look him in the eye, her starlight eyes glaring. Her lips were swollen from where Tamlin had kissed her. "What do you care?"

Rhysand gripped her even tighter, stretching her arms until he knew they ached. "What do I care?" Nothing but pure unadulterated hatred leaked down the bond now, no desire, no want, just anger and hatred. Rhysand was choking on her rage and his own, and the jealousy roared through his ears. He couldn't get Tamlin's hands out of his mind, the way he touched her, the way he claimed her for his own like it was _nothing._ He struggled against his rage, his wings flaring out behind him before he could shove them back, "What do I care?"

"Through here?" a female voice murmured outside the door.

He could hear that voice he hated so much, he could feel the fortress of her mind creeping towards the door, and his head snapped to the door. Then he looked back at Feyre, and she was looking up at him with such hatred. Amarantha was coming _now,_ and her paint was a mess, he had her pinned against the wall.

 _Fuck._

He shoved his wings back into the in-between, and before he could change his mind his lips were against Feyre's, crushing, angry and hungry. He knew it was so wrong, and Feyre hated him so much, and as he pried her mouth open with his tongue, he could taste something that he _knew_ was Tamlin. She thrashed against him, but he didn't yield, knowing Amarantha was about to storm through that door at any moment. He swept his tongue over the roof of her mouth, against her teeth, replacing the taste of Tamlin with his own taste, claiming every part of her that he could take. At least if they all died tomorrow, he had this stolen gift from the Cauldron.

The door flew open behind them, and Rhysand felt, more than saw Amarantha enter the room with Tamlin behind them. Rhysand has kept his eyes open, watching Feyre as she looked around his face, still pressing his lips into her own, swiping his tongue through her mouth.

He felt the surprise and then the deep, burning rage that hissed through Tamlin at the sight.

Something purred in his chest at the thought.

Amarantha began to laugh, a cruel, ingenuine sound.

Rhysand ended the kiss, flicking his tongue gently over her bottom lip, an action he hoped she saw as apologetic. A crowd of High Fae gathered behind the cursed couple, and they joined in with Amarantha's laughter as well.

He let go of Feyre's arms, turned to the crowd, giving them a lazy, self-indulgent grin and bowing slightly at the crowd. He hated himself in that moment, but that was a feeling he was used to feeling at this point.

Amarantha quieted her laughter, looking over Rhysand with an expression he hadn't seen before. Like she saw through him. Like she knew that he was indulging himself in that kiss, like she knew he had done it in order to protect the human girl.

Fear crept across his chest.

"I knew it was a matter of time," Amarantha cooed, placing her arm on Tamlin's arm. "You humans are all the same, aren't you." She lifted her hand so that Jurian could take in Feyre and Rhysand, who was now covered in her ink.

Feyre snapped her mouth shut behind him, her face filling with a blush. Shame slithered down the bond.

Amarantha clicked her tongue and tossed her hair over her shoulder as she turned away, strolling from the room. "Typical human trash with their inconstant, dull hearts."

Rhysand heard the double meaning. He already dreaded the rest of his evening. This night was fucking mess. He should have stopped Feyre before she left the bloody room.

Sighing, he grabbed her arm, more gently this time, and tugged her along with him to the throne room. When they were nearly across the room, he proclaimed, aware of the many ears listening to them, "I'm tired of you for tonight," he shoved her towards the main exit, "Go back to your cell."

Amarantha smiled like a satisfied cat from where she stood on her dais, Tamlin beside her. The couple and Amarantha's court looked over the smeared paint across Feyre, across her breasts, down her leg. Rhysand had amplified the amount of paint on his arms with his power and smirked like he had been found out in a great secret.

Their grins all widened as they saw exactly where Rhysand had touched.

Feyre looked at Rhys for a moment, sad and confused, then glanced back at the throne for Tamlin. Tamlin had turned away from her, unable to look at evidence.

Finally, she turned and stalked for the entrance, her red-skinned guards following her as she led the way from the room on her own this time.

The guilt Rhysand shouldered was profound as he watched her walk away, her golden-brown hair still mused from where he had pressed her into the wall.

When he turned back to look at the Red Queen, she was staring at him with a small smile on her month, her face contemplative.

First the time in a long time, he stood to the right of her throne.

Amarantha's Whore.

He hoped it would be enough to cover up his intentions.

* * *

Rhysand and Tamlin followed Amarantha from the throne room while the rest of her court slept, drank or continued to dance into the wee hours of the morning. Rhysand had his hands shoved in his pockets, his face indifferent, maybe vaguely amused. A mask over the ocean of fear that shimmering within.

They had one day left. One day left and he may have blown it all by going a little too far with a kiss.

As they reached her room, she stopped in the hallway, glancing at them both and raised her eyebrows.

Rhysand stared at her, ready for whatever was going to happen next.

The next words though, were something he was not prepared for.

"Tamlin. Go find somewhere else to be. I have business with Rhysand tonight," her ruby lips were spread in a smirk, and she had one foot up in the air as she was pulling her black heel off already.

Tamlin looked at her for a long moment, his face impassive but Rhysand knew it pleased him to know whatever fresh hell was coming Rhysand's way.

Rhysand had been playing this role for nearly fifty years now, taking less than a year to establish himself as Amarantha's most useful toy. His power itself made her want him, and he really did know what he was doing…

So, before Tamlin even turned away, Rhysand had picked up Amarantha by her hips, pinning her against her door, his lips pressing into her own. She tasted like that awful spice he hated, and he felt her claws as they burrowed into his hair but with his power pushing through her she couldn't help the groan that escaped her throat.

Tamlin made a disgusted noise behind them, and then Rhysand was kicking her door open while the his hands creeped down Amarantha's dress.

Honestly, Rhysand almost missed the big blonde guy at this moment. Almost. But not quite.

After what felt like hours later, she was shaking from where he had his lips between her legs, his tongue hitting all of her favorite places.

He knew what was coming next.

She shook for another moment, but then her breath came out in a breathless laugh.

Then he was flipped on his back and she was on top of him. That familiar, uncomfortable position. She pinned his hands at his side with her power, and before he could so much as shift his hips, she was on him.

As she groaned above him, he waited for it.

She pinned him with her power now, and was pulling slowly at his power. It was funny, in an ironic, humorless way that as she pulled on his power her pleasure would be slowly decreasing.

"I saw you today, High Lord. The way you kissed her… like you were a starving man and she was a feast."

Rhysand looked at her through heavily lidded eyes, pretending like he was enjoying this just as much as she did.

"I kissed her out of boredom, Your Majesty. When I kiss you, I feel like a man dying of thirst getting a sip of water," his voice was a purr. _Please believe me._

Amarantha only tightened her grip on his neck, "What do you men see in her? She is nothing. She is less than a dog. She is not even able to stay constant to the man she says she loves."

"She is nothing, Amarantha, my queen. She is nothing, and you are everything. She is the scum beneath my shoe, and you are the morning star in the middle of my sky," he whispered, trying not to panic as she choked him.

Amarantha actually laughed and was silent until again until her release shuttered through her.

She climbed off him then, flipping onto her back and spreading her legs again.

Rhysand knew that she would never want him to take her this way, so he came to her side, kissing softly along her neck while his hand creeped in between her legs. "Insatiable tonight, aren't you, My Queen?"

Amarantha brought his lips to hers and bit him hard enough to drawl blood until she had to break away to gasp. "Why do you use her? What do you want with her?"

Rhysand smiled, his lip already healing from her bite, and hated her with everything in his miserable old soul. "I am using her to play with my dear friend, Tamlin, after all are you not doing the same? The look on his face after he saw how her paint had smeared was well worth the disgust I felt while doing it. She is like kissing a dog. She's nothing but human garbage."

And so,they went on, into the wee hours of the morning, Rhysand purring in her ear sweet lies while he thought about how she would look with his claw through her chest. How she would look as the blood dripped from her nose after he shattered her mind.

* * *

When they were done, Amarantha threw him from the room with more than a few bite marks along his body, along his tongue and ears. At least she had given him his tunic, although she did not allow him to pick up his undershirt or underthings. So, he left her room and headed for the throne room to look for Tamlin as he had been ordered to send him back to the roost.

He was shoving a boot onto his sockless foot when he stumbled into the throne room, and buttoning up his pants when he found Tamlin sitting on the throne, watching sleeping courtiers who had been too foolish or intoxicated to make it to their own beds that night.

Rhysand approached him, not bothering to hide the evidence of their love making. Everyone already knew about it, who gave a shit anymore.

"She's requests your presence, sweet Spring Lord," Rhysand purred as he approached the dais, and decided to sit on the edge of the dais while he waited for Tamlin to stand.

Tamlin stared at him with unhinged hatred, his green eyes two glowing fires on his face. Rhysand looked around the room, hoping this would be the last night he would ever have to be in this room. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes as he heard Tamlin stand.

Tamlin slowly headed in his directly and stopped when he stood next to him. "If you ever touch her in that way again, I will kill you."

His voice was soft, and promising. It was a good threat, one without rage and premeditation. Not bad work for Tamlin's sloppiness.

Rhysand laughed darkly, leaning back on his hands, "I'll assume you're talking about your little human girl. Here's this: if I ever touch her that way again without her permission, you can kill me. Ah, I suppose only after this pesky trial business is all done with though."

Tamlin turned to look down at him once, his face obviously surprised.

"I know you think me a monster, but perhaps I am only the monster that keeps the real monster at bay." Rhysand spoke quietly, so they wouldn't be overheard by the sleeping courtesans.

Neither of them spoke again. Tamlin stood quietly at his side for a moment, and then exited the throne room.

Rhysand sat there, staring at the floor he hated so much, that he had seen so much blood spilt on over the years. He looked at the wall where countless faeries and a few humans had been pinned, left to rot where the court could see them best. He looked to the bronze thrones, and everything they represented. The soft snores of sleeping faeries permeated the silence, but he felt incredibly lonely.

He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling for the tattoo that he hoped would take his feeling that was eating him alive away. She was fading in and out of sleep, perhaps not completely gone to her dreams but well on her way. The melody of her thoughts made him want to sigh.

 _Fuck it. I have one more night._ One more night on this world, and if he died tomorrow, he would regret not seeing her one more time. If she died tomorrow, he would regret not seeing her one more time.

So, screw it, he was going to see her one more time.

He ran a finger through his hair again, knowing he looked a mess. _Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it._

He winnowed outside of the prison as usual. Then, not bothering to save his powers, he made himself completely invisible again, pushing through the wall directly this time until he was standing in the corner of her cell.

He didn't bother to silence his footsteps as he stepped fully into the room.

Feyre shot up into a sitting position, smoothing out the magenta gown they had left her in instinctually. Her face flushed as she looked over him, but curse him, the bond revealed the flush was more from shame than desire.

Rhysand looked at her for a moment before slumping wordlessly against the wall across from her, sliding to the floor. He ran his fingers through his hair again subconsciously, remembering he hadn't even bother to button up his tunic. He rested his elbows on his bent knees, watching her from between his legs.

Feyre sized him up before exploding, "What do you want?"

He griped the headache that was forming in the temples before snapping back at her, "A moment of peace and quiet."

Did he? Was that why he came here?

He didn't even know why he came here.

Feyre was silent for a minute, and when she replied her voice was softer, "From what?"

He rubbed the skin on either side of his head, feeling her piercing eyes on his face. He debated on answering her, before sighing, "From this mess."

Feyre straightened further, sitting up the whole way so she could look at him properly.

Shit. He couldn't decide if he liked or hated it when she looked at him that way, like she truly saw him. He debated for a moment, before deciding on indecision.

"That damned bitch is running me ragged," he dropped his fingers from his face, and leaned his head back against the wall so he looked at her through his lashes. "You hate me. Imagine how you'd feel if I made you serve in my bedroom. I'm High Lord of the Night Court – not her harlot."

Feyre stared at him longer, her starlight eyes stripping him down into nothing. "Why are you telling me this?" her voice was quiet.

 _Because I want you to know me before either of us die. I want you to see, just once, all of things that I tried, and failed to do for you. Because I want you to know everything, I want you to know why I've done the things that I've done. Because I want you to see what I've become and why._ Rhysand swallowed, wanting to tell her everything. But… he couldn't. Not now. He had made his choice, and now he had to follow through.

When he spoke, his voice was raw, "Because I'm tired and lonely, and you're the only person I can talk to without putting myself at risk."

Well, it was true enough, wasn't it? Rhysand was trying to convince himself. He let out a low laugh as he thought of the absurdity of it all. "How absurd: A High Lord of Prythian and a- "

Feyre interrupted him, her voice harsh, her arms crossed, "You can leave if you're just going to insult me."

God, she was beautiful, even here underneath a stone sky. When she glared at him, she crinkled her nose a little bit and it made her freckles show. "But I'm so good at it," he grinned at her, a forced expression.

When she didn't answer, he sighed again, dropping the grin. "One wrong move tomorrow, Feyre, and we're all doomed."

Horror slipped down the bond. Feyre had stopped glaring at him to stare at her hands.

"And if you fail, then Amarantha will rule forever." And what did that mean for him? Could he do this forever, if Feyre was gone? Could he be Amarantha's whore, her daemati solider, in order to keep his court safe? He had promised himself he would fight for Feyre, but did that mean he would interfere with her death if she lost the trial fair and square?

As he pondered it and realized the answer to that question with no small amount of horror, Feyre spoke quietly. "If she captured Tamlin's power once, who's to say she can't do it again?"

"He won't be tricked again so easily." _I won't be tricked again so easily._ He stared at the ceiling, "Her biggest weapon is that she keeps our powers contained. But she can't access them, not wholly – though she can control us through them. It's why I've never been able to shatter her mind – why she's not dead already. The moment you break Amarantha's curse, Tamlin's wrath will be so great that no force in the world will keep him from splatter her on the walls." He had fantasized about that moment so many times, he had bet and imagined and hoped ever since Feyre had gotten herself stuck inside of their mess.

Feyre shivered, but he suspected it wasn't just from the cold. Regardless, he used his power to bring the temperature up a few degrees.

"Why do you think I'm doing this?" He waved to her, still dressed and painted although the smears from Tamlin's escapades remained.

Feyre's answer came so quick, spoke with such truth that it stopped his train of thoughts, "Because you're a monster."

 _Fuck._ She may be right, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Rhysand laughed before she could notice his pause. "True, but I'm also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. Seeing you enter into a fool's bargain with Amarantha was one thing, but when Tamlin saw my tattoo on your arm…," he trailed off, remembering the hurricane of rage behind his mental hedges, "Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him."

"Who's to say he won't splatter you as well?"

Rhysand smiled at the ceiling, "Perhaps he'll try – but I have a feeling he'll kill Amarantha first. That's what it all boils down to, anyway: even your servitude to me can be blamed on her. So he'll kill her tomorrow, and I'll be free before he can start a fight with me that will reduce our once-sacred mountain to rubble." As much as Rhysand wanted to kill Tamlin, wanted to punish him as he had let them all suffer, it would be foolish to fight him. Not so soon after they had everything back.

If they got everything back.

Rhysand picked at his nails, feigning indifference, "And I have a few other cards to play." Like your freedom, as soon as he sets us free.

Feyre lifted her eyebrows, not willing to voice the question.

"Feyre, for Cauldron's sake. I drug you, but you don't wonder why I never touch you beyond your waist and arms?" he pointed out the most obvious defense, honestly surprised she hadn't thought of it herself.

Feyre gritted her teeth in annoyance, her face flushing again. Obviously thinking of the time where he touched her elsewhere.

"It's the only claim I have to innocence," he murmured, "the only thing that will make Tamlin think twice before entering into a battle with me that would cause a catastrophic loss of innocent life. It's the only way I can convince him I was on your side. Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to enjoy you – but there a bigger things at stake than taking a human woman to my bed." As he spoke these thoughts aloud, he was trying to remind himself. He had sacrificed so much. He couldn't give it away for her.

Feyre cocked her head to the side, leaning it back against the wall, "Like what?"

"Like my territory," he spoke softly. _Velaris. My friends. My people._ "Like my remaining people, enslaved to a tyrant queen who can end their lives with a single word. Surely Tamlin expressed similar sentiments to you."

Feyre just stared at him for a moment. He didn't need to search her thoughts to realize that Tamlin had not displayed the same sentiments to her. Did he even care? Or had he fallen so far into his stupor that nothing else mattered to Tamlin after all these years?

"Why did Amarantha target you? Why make you her whore?" She spoke suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Beyond the obvious?" Rhysand smirked, gesturing to his face, hoping to pull a smile from her lips.

She just held his gaze with the same expression. _Cauldron._ He thought he had been good at seducing women at one point. Had he lost his touch?

Was he trying to seduce her?

He loosed a breath, looking away from her, "My father killed Tamlin's father –" and then he lied, "and his brothers."

Feyre looked surprised but said nothing. Rhysand was honestly surprised Tamlin hadn't told her the story of the big, bad, evil Night Court coming in the night to slaughter his family. He would have thought that would have been a party favorite.

"It's a long story, and I don't feel like getting into it, but let's just say that when she stole our lands out from under us, Amarantha decided that she especially wanted to punish the son of her friend's murderer- decided that she hated me enough for my father's deeds that I was to suffer."

They sat in silence for a moment, Rhysand trapped in memories of the past. Feyre's hand twitched, like she thought about taking his hand in her own, her mouth opened as if she was going to say something but then she closed it. His heart skipped regardless, and the longing to touch her stretched into eternity.

He looked at her wearily, "So, here we are, with the fate of our immortal world in the hands of an illiterate human." He laughed a dark, haunting laugh, dropping his face into his hands and closed his eyes. "What a mess."

Feyre was silent for so long. She hadn't said anything, she had just absorbed and listened, and he couldn't help himself when he let himself listen to her thoughts.

 _Rhysand is keeping me alive, regardless of his motives. And he had been doing so even before she set foot Under the Mountain._

He withdrew from her head. Shit.

The urge to bolt struck him and he quickly got to his feet.

"I've told you too much. Perhaps I should have drugged you first. If you were clever, you'd find a way to use this against me. And if you had any stomach for cruelty, you'd go to Amarantha and tell her the truth about her whore. Perhaps she'd give you Tamlin for it." His voice was raw as he voiced all his fears to her, his heart shooting off into an impossible pace.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pulling the shadows into him as he planned to run from the room like the coward that he was. She may understand him now, but that doesn't make him any less of a monster.

Just before he was fully faded into the night, she spoke, her voice high and curious, "When you healed my arm …" she trailed off and tried again, "You didn't need to bargain with me. You could have demanded every single week of the year." She lowered her eyebrows in confusion. "Every single week, and I would have said yes."

A breath passed between them.

Rhysand smiled, only because he knew that she was lying in a way. She was stubborn enough she would have said no. She would have died rather than give him her life for Tamlin's own… although she may have caved in the last moments before death.

He stared into the starlight eye's that destroyed him, breathed in her scent like it would be last scent he would ever smell and spoke softly, "I know."

He faded into nothingness, and turned, stepping out of her cell.

After he winnowed back into his room, the only things he could think about was the way she looked at him, and how if she died tomorrow he would never again get to see the delicious way her lips pouted when she glared at him.

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Shoo. 9,110 words. What a novel. ;)

Enjoy!

And review!


	20. The Last Trial

Well, well, well. Three updates in a week... hell must be freezing over. Ha!

I bring you all the craziest chapter in the whole series: The Last Trial.

My heart broke as I wrote this part of the story.

I hope that it effects you guys in the same way that it effects me.

To these who review: You really are the best.

I am thinking about writing another story about Rhysand/Feyre's eventual children with maybe a little crossover from TOG. If something like that sounds interesting to you, stay tuned.

Much love,  
TurtleSteed

Also:

ORD: I saw your comment and figured I should probably answer your question about the communication between the Inner Circle and Rhys. I totally made that up, nothing mentioned in the books about it but I really felt like it would be almost unrealistic for the Inner Circle to just like go on their lives without saving him unless Rhys was specifically like "You fkers, let me be the martyr." Ha! So, no worries, you didn't miss anything! :)

* * *

When Rhysand returned to his room that last night, he didn't sleep. He stayed up, sitting in his lounge chair by the fire, his fingers playing with a frayed string on the arm of the chair. He watched as an ember escaped from the hearth and floated around the room before finally burning into ash in front of his face.

He could feel her down that bond. She was scared, endlessly sad but ready. She wanted it over with.

He supposed he did as well.

The worst part of meeting fate is the long wait.

When he could feel his night sinking down under the mountain, and the sun rising in the sky, he bathed slowly and dressed. When he shoved a piece of mint into his mouth to freshen his breath, his hands were shaking. He opened and closed his fists until the nerves lingered just below the surface.

Rhysand was scared. A fear settled down into his bones and refused to lift. A fear for himself, a fear for his court, a fear for her.

When he left his room, feeling the pull of Amarantha's summoning, the halls were empty and quiet. The few faeries he did see had blank, tight expressions. No one bothered to whisper as he passed, no one even seemed to notice him. When he reached the throne room, he was only mildly surprised that Amarantha was waiting on her court to arrive instead of sending them off to a random room. The previous tasks had taken place in different parts of the sacred mountain, but he should have known better. Amarantha loved the irony, the fate of ending something in the same room in which it began.

She was wearing a dress of the brightest, bloodiest red and bile rose in his throat as he looked over her.

Circular fate, indeed. He hated how she looked, her hair long and gleaming red down her back. Her claws were dipped red, her dress bleeding. It disgusted him.

Rhysand settled in his place nearby the other High Lord's, unable to step closer to that bronze throne than necessary. Tamlin was the only Lord who lingered near her, his ass placed firmly on his own miniature throne and his face betraying nothing.

Rhysand could feel the heavy beat of his own heart in his chest, and he carefully flicked a piece of lint from his tunic while they waited for their esteemed guest to arrive.

He could feel Feyre's fear as she crept closer and closer to her fate.

Amarantha's court remained silent. Nervous. Even Amarantha's own Hybern friends remained silent, their pale faces watching the room quietly.

 _Babump. Babump. Babump._ Rhysand didn't bother to try to control his heart, hearing Kallias and even Beron's heart thumping along at the same frantic pace.

He could _feel_ her approach more than hear it and the entire room turned in attention as the sounds of clanking footsteps sounded from the entryway to the room. The doors flew open with force and Feyre entered the room, her red-skinned guards following behind her.

Her head was held high, her expression dignified even though they had put her back in those filthy clothes. It was the same set she wore doing the first challenge, still reeking and stained with the dirt of that monster. Her eyes sparkled as they took in the gathering of silent faeries.

Rhysand could hear every breath, every beating of every heart in the room as Feyre took her slow steps into the room. A few faeries despite being under Amarantha's dark eyes, placed their fingers to their lips and then extended their hands to Feyre as she passed them. Feyre obviously viewed it as most humans did, a farewell to the beloved dead if the twist of her mouth was any indication. Rhysand knew otherwise: this was a sign of thanks, of fealty in the courts of Prythian. In an immortal land, there was little need for farewell.

Feyre followed the invisible path to Amarantha's throne as faeries cleared the way to let her through.

Amarantha smiled as she approached. For once, Feyre didn't turn her eyes to Tamlin but instead let her gaze rest on the Red Queen, all defiance.

"Two trials lie behind you," Amarantha spoke with an echoing voice, and picked at a piece of dirt on her red dress. She had learned mannerism that from Rhysand, but Rhysand saw it as a sign of her discomfort under Feyre's gaze. "And only one more awaits. I wonder if it will be worse to fail now – when you are so close." Amarantha pouted, then turned her dark gaze over her court, waiting for her crowd to laugh for her.

Only Feyre's guards chuckled quietly.

The rest of the court stood silent; their faces stony. Waiting. Hoping. Wanting.

Rhysand felt a burning behind his eyes as he saw the product of the hope he had attempted to plant so long ago.

Feyre blinked more than necessary, perhaps fighting burning behind her own eyes as well.

Amarantha glared at her court as they ignored her, but her face changed comically when she settled her gaze back on the human girl before her. Her smile grew broad, sickly. "Any words to say before you die?"

Fear panged through Rhysand, pinning him to the floor. Feyre turned her eyes slowly to Tamlin then, just like she did all those nights, before each trial. Tamlin did not react to her gaze, his face impassive, but his green eyes settled on her as well.

"I love you." Feyre spoke simply, quietly. "No matter what she says about it, no matter if it's only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I'll love you." Her lips trembled, the love she felt for him pouring out of her in glittering globes of tears.

Rhysand felt a sear of jealousy, but more than anything he felt determined. She _had_ to survive this. He may hate Tamlin with all his soul, but this girl deserved a thousand years with the man she loved.

He tried not to think of the fact that even if she survived, she would have a few decades with Tamlin at most.

Tamlin just stared down at her, surprisingly out of character for him. It was perhaps her last moments on this earth, but Tamlin kept up his mask for the sake of Amarantha's spite.

Amarantha cooed, "You'll be lucky, my darling, if we even have enough left of you to burn."

Feyre turned her gaze back to Amarantha, staring at her with an expression that would ignite the world.

Rhysand did not pull at the bond, did not search for her thoughts in the crowd, but they tumbled down their connection despite his intentions.

 _I have beaten her until now, fair or not, and I will not feel alone when I die. I will not die alone. Even this tattoo marks my triumph._

Rhysand swallowed hard, crossing his arms across his body to hide how her thoughts had shaken him. That had always been his plan, wasn't it? That she wouldn't fight alone, that he wouldn't let her suffer alone.

Amarantha mockingly placed her head on her chin, balancing her elbow on her throne. "You never figured out my riddle, did you?"

Feyre remained silent. Rhysand knew she had stopped trying long ago.

"Pity. The answer is so lovely." Her lips were spread into a cruel smirk.

"Get it over with," Feyre growled finally. _How was she human?_ She looked every inch a faerie at this moment, even with the filth.

Amarantha turned her gaze to Tamlin, mocking him now. "No final words to her?" Her eyebrow quirked.

Tamlin remained a statue.

Amarantha grinned. "Very well, then." She clapped her hands twice.

The doors to the throne room were again pushed open by Amarantha's red-skinned guards, and in between them, three faeries were drug in. Their faces were covered with brown sacks, concealing their identity.

For the first time since Feyre arrived, whispers echoed quietly through the throne room as faeries looked for familiar faces. As they tried to figure out who was missing.

Rhysand raked his eyes over the crowd. Lucien's red hair shone along a back wall. He could find no one of note missing. His eyes settled back on the prisoners. Two males and one female. Their clothing gave little indication of who they were.

The guards shoved the three faeries to their knees at the foot the dais, facing away from Amarantha, and towards Feyre.

Amarantha smirked, clapping her hands again. Three servants approached from the back of the room, dressed in black and each holding a large, dark velvet pillow. They approached the prisoners, settling at the side of each prisoner.

Rhysand felt his breath stumble, his heart pound even harder as he saw the polished, wooden daggers on each pillow. Ash. Daggers of Ash.

Feyre's heart pounded as she stared at the daggers on the pillows before her.

"Your final task, Feyre." Amarantha drawled, gesturing below, "Stab each of these unfortunate souls in the heart."

Feyre's mouth flew open, her gaze panicked as she turned it back to the Queen.

"They're innocent – not that it should matter to you, since it wasn't a concern the day you killed Tamlin's poor sentinel. And it wasn't a concern for dear Jurian when he butchered my sister. But if that's a problem … well, you can always refuse. Of course, I'll take your life in exchange, but a bargain's a bargain, is it not? If you ask me, though, given your history with murdering our kind, I do believe I'm offering you a gift."

Bitch. Cruel, conniving, evil little bitch was what Amarantha was. Refuse to kill three innocent's and die. Kill them and live. Feyre's breaths were coming out as pants as she stared at the daggers like they were snakes who were priming to strike.

Rhysand had done it, he had done so much worse, but it had turned him into something he had never meant to be. He had wanted to be different, to be just and kind and strong for his court. Fate had a way of twisting things, of making an impossible price to pay for things that should be a god given right. He had killed two dozen younglings. He had killed at least 3 innocents in the time that Feyre had come to Prythian, but in the years that came before her arrival he killed more than he could possibly remember for the price of his court's safety.

This wasn't a trial. This was the destruction of innocence.

He saw the price.

Destroy yourself and live or choose death. Those were the options.

"Well?" Amarantha smirked. She lifted her hand, letting Jurian's eye take in the scene before them, purring down to the ring, "I wouldn't want you to miss this, old friend."

Feyre was shaking her head from side to side, a silent 'no' that he was sure she was fighting against. She stared at the first figure, the first male, the shining dagger on the pillow.

He heard their names as she recited them in her head, pushing them down the bond, a meaning that he was unsure of.

 _Tamlin. Lucien. Alis. Rhysand._

Rhysand. She had added his name to her list.

He watched as she sealed away her fear, sealed away herself, so that she could step up to the first victim. The male. It was only one step and it was like she was moving in slow motion. She was going to do it.

She was trading herself for them all.

With a trembling hand, she picked up the first blade in her hand. The room, if possible, was quieter than even before. He was not sure a single soul was breathing as they watched her.

"Not so fast." Amarantha giggled, and the guards who held the first figure to the dais took the hood from his face.

Rhysand didn't recognize him, but he knew he was young from the way his face clung to the roundness of his youth. He probably hadn't stopped aging yet, a process that lasted about seventy-five years for the fae. He heard the sharp intake of a breath in the back of the room as the male was recognized by his family and friends.

"That's better," Amarantha smiled. "Proceed, Feyre, dear. Enjoy it."

Feyre stared at him, that dagger clutched between her hands. She stared into his eyes, taking in every inch of his face like she would want to remember the male she killed for such nonsense for the rest of her days.

"Please," the boy whispered, his eyes settling on her face and then on the dagger, "Please."

The dagger shook in Feyre's fingers.

The image of Tamlin, in his beast form with Amarantha pinned against her throne, leaked down the bond.

"Don't!" the male begged as Feyre lifted the dagger, "Don't!"

She took a gasping breath as every inch of her shook, the dagger tip dipping with her tremors.

"Please!" he moaned, his eyes filling with silver.

Rhysand was tempted to drawl the youth into himself, to take away his pain. To silence him. But he would take no chances this time, not with this magic.

A female in the crowd started weeping outright.

Feyre jumped as if the noise surprised her, the dagger still raised above her head.

Rhysand wanted to help her. This time, in this thing, she was on her own. He could not help her in any way that mattered.

He winnowed closer, nearby the throne, so that Feyre could see him over the head of the faerie boy at her mercy.

To remind her that she wasn't alone. That if she was breaking, he was broken and monstrous too.

His mask was careful as he felt Amarantha examine him for a moment. _Do it, Feyre. You can do this._

"Don't," the male moaned. Feyre shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment, blocking out his words. She tightened her grip on the dagger, steadying it.

"Please!" he screamed in earnest now. Feyre's eyes opened into a slit, and as he screamed, she lunged toward, sobbing as she plunged the ash dagger deep into his chest.

It was not a clean death. The boy shrieked, thrashing against his guards as the blade pierced through his flesh, and blood shot from his chest, showering Feyre's hand in blood. She sobbed again, yanking the dagger away, out of his chest.

The male stared at her, his expression facing away so that Rhysand could not see it, but Feyre stumbled back, dropping the dagger just as the female wailed from the back of the throne room. The youth's body stilled as his took a last, final beat.

Rhysand could feel her soul breaking, the self-hatred burning so brightly. He had felt how she felt so many times, and he ached. She didn't deserve to go through any of this.

"Very good," Amarantha murmured.

Feyre stared down at the sticky blood coating her hands, her eyes shimmering as tears continued to overflow.

"Now the next. Oh, don't look so miserable, Feyre. Aren't you having fun?"

Amarantha sounded so smug. Rhysand didn't both to look at her, his eyes only on Feyre as she swallowed, and then turned to the second figure.

He heard her thoughts again. _There's no turning back now._

The guards tore off the next faeries hood, and Feyre reached for the dagger nearby, preparing herself.

Rhysand was not prepared for the cascade of golden-brown hair that fell down the faeries back. She had been one of his favorite girls, one he had danced with nightly for almost fifty years. He never used his girls for more than they asked for, but he had known her. She had sat on his lap many times, giggling at foolish jokes and moaning quietly as his fingers slid down her legs.

Shame trembled through him as he realized he didn't even know her name.

Tears were trickling down her face to hit the floor, only a few inches from where Feyre's tears fell as well. Rhysand could see them from where he was standing.

Feyre looked at the dagger with a twisted face, the blood on her fingers smearing over the new, clean dagger.

Amarantha had done this because she wanted Feyre to have to reach for the dagger every time. She had wanted her to feel the intention, to make that decision, every time she killed.

Feyre turned her gaze to the faerie, her eyes full of misery and apologetic. Words struggled to rise in her throat, so she closed her mouth.

The female whispered the prayer Rhysand had echoed so many times.

"Cauldron save me," her voice oddly strong, "Mother hold me. Guide me to you."

Feyre stared at her, slightly slack-jawed.

The image of a blue-skinned faerie bleeding on a dining room table shimmered down the bond this time.

"Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey."

Feyre gripped the dagger, fresh tears sliding down her face and her neck, dampening the filth on her tunic. _I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this._

Rhysand gripped his biceps as he watched her with crossed arms, willing his strength and his resolve to spread to the human girl breaking before them all.

"Let me feel no evil," the faerie spoke so quietly now that Rhysand struggled to hear the words, "Let me feel no pain."

Feyre let a sob escape. "I'm sorry," she moaned.

"Let me enter eternity," she breathed. It was a command. _End this,_ her prayer seemed to beg.

Feyre wept unbidden, her grip tightening on that ash dagger.

The faeries golden-brown hair shone in the faelight as she nodded subtly to Feyre.

Feyre lifted the dagger again, her face twisting in agony.

Rhysand felt the break then, the fracture of what had been whole, of what he had patched that night he gave her the gift of that song. He felt the fracture, a break that would never heal.

Faeries sobbed in earnest throughout the hall now, another golden-hair faerie that Rhysand recognized crying the loudest of them all. Her sister, he suspected, guilt permeating through him. He was so selfish. He should have known them. He should have taken the time, to look away from his own tragedy just for a moment.

The faerie lifted her chin, closing her eyes. "Let me enter eternity. Fear no evil. Feel no pain." Her last prayers were for Feyre.

Feyre reached out, steadying the girl with her free hand, and then with another sob drove the dagger deep into her heart.

Rhysand swallowed his misery, knowing his was nothing compared to his human girl's.

The female gasped, her blood splattering to the ground of the dais. She slumped to the floor. The guards let her fall.

Rhyand's attention was drawn away from Feyre as he heard a smug smacking of lips nearby. He turned to look at Amarantha then, and she looked nothing like a female who was about to lose to a human girl.

In fact, she was smiling down at Feyre now in a vicious way he had only seen a few times. Like she had already won. Feyre dropped the dagger, he heard it clatter to the floor nearby.

Tamlin let a small smile slip past his mask.

Rhysand took a sharp intake of breath because then he _knew._ He had been foolish. This Tamlin, this man who sat on the throne was no Tamlin at all. Horror filled his chest as he stretched out his mind, feeling a familiar sinister mind sitting on Tamlin's throne and the last faerie who kneeled on the dais…

Feyre was about to reach for the last dagger when the guard removed the hood from the male kneeling before her.

When she saw his golden hair tumble out of the sack, when she saw his green eyes she froze. Her hands dropped at her side.

 _Fuck._

She whipped her head to the throne on which his imposer sat, and Amarantha laughed at the expression on her face, snapping her fingers. He transformed into the grey skinned, barbed-tailed Attor who smiled wickedly down at Feyre.

Feyre stumbled back a step, her eyes wide.

 _Fuck._ Would she do this? Would she sacrifice the thing she had sacrificed it all for?

Tamlin stared up at her, and although Rhysand could not see his own face he could feel the guilt and sadness through Tamlin's hedged mind. The same feelings that rippled through him.

"Something wrong?" Amarantha purred, cocking her head.

"Not … Not fair," Feyre stuttered, her heart pounding. Her eyes flicked to him for a moment.

Amarantha's voice echoed through his head. _Your final task, Feyre. Stab each of these unfortunate souls in the heart._ A trick. This was nothing but a trick.

Tamlin didn't have a heart anymore, not in the way that the rest of them did. Amarantha's curse had turned his heart to stone until the moment he could make a human girl love him.

He searched his memories, trying to think of a time where he had let slip about Tamlin's stone heart around her, but he could think of nothing.

She would have to use her own cleverness. He tried to reach out his mind to tell her now, but Amarantha's curse bound him. He physically could not tell her, even mentally.

 _Shit._

"Fair?" Amarantha played with her necklace, leaning back. "I wasn't aware you humans knew of the concept. You kill Tamlin, and he's free." She smiled. "And then you can have him all to yourself."

Lies. These were all such cruel lies.

Feyre stared at her in disbelief.

"Unless, you think it would be more appropriate to forfeit your life. After all: What's the point? To survive only to lose him?" her voice came out in a hiss. "Imagine all those years you were going to spend together … suddenly alone. Tragic, really. Though a few months ago, you hated our kind enough to butcher us – surely you'll move on easily enough."

Amarantha patted Jurian's ring. "Jurian's human lover did."

Feyre turned her gaze back to Tamlin, her starlight eyes burning with old and new tears.

"So," Amarantha purred, "What will it be, Feyre?"

She stared at Tamlin, then at the dagger for a long moment. She was thinking, clever enough to realize that there was more to this than Amarantha was letting on. She was searching her brain for any information that would help her, that would explain this turn of events. She thought about Tamlin's lies, and what he had told her of the wretched curse. She knew his hands had been tied in what he could tell her but…

 _Stab him, Feyre._ Rhysand was begging her. _Stab him, free us. This is a trick, this is all just a trick and we all have to go along with it._

Feyre stared at Tamlin again, searching his eyes for something that Rhysand could not see.

Her thoughts rang like a bell down the bond. _Amarantha would never kill what she desired most. Not when she wants him as much as I do._

Keep going, Feyre. He wanted to beg her. He clutched his arms desperately, a single finger pressed on that floral tattoo that tapped directly into her mind.

Feyre froze.

She thought of something Lucien had said when speaking to the Attor, back when she was still in the manor.

 _For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days._

Rhysand despite himself, despite his careful self-control felt his heart soar at that very moment. He may have let a smug smile cross his lips.

Feyre knew. She knew that Amarantha would never sacrifice what she wanted, she knew that Tamlin could not be stabbed with a dagger to the heart, even one made of ash.

She knew that this was just another riddle, and she had just solved it.

Feyre stared into Tamlin's face, searching for confirmation. The room had fallen silent again, even those that had wept for their fallen comrades staring in full attention.

Then she took a step toward him. Then another. She took the dagger from the pillow without looking at the servant. She looked only at her High Lord.

Rhysand was soaring so high that he didn't even feel the jealousy at the look of devotion in her eyes.

She pulled back her arm, a small determined smile on her own face.

Feyre leaned forward, whispering, "I love you."

And then she stabbed him.

Tamlin groaned as the blade pierced his flesh, cutting deep through bone, his blood rushing out over Feyre's hand.

 _Thud._

The noise reverberated through the silent room.

Tamlin lurched forward, his face paling from the agony, and Feyre ripped the dagger from his chest, the determined smile turning into a look of panic.

When the blade was free from his chest, Feyre held it up for the room to see.

The tip was bent. Turned in on itself.

Like it had hit stone itself and bent under the pressure.

Tamlin panted, clutching his chest, but his wounds were already starting to heal.

Rhysand did not bother to hide his joy. She had done it. This human girl had freed them all, she had beaten Amarantha's trial, proving her worth and her love.

Feyre had done it.

An unfamiliar emotion slide across his chest, one that filled him with light and happiness. It felt like flying.

When he looked around the room the faces that looked back towards him all echoed his joy.

Amarantha climbed to her feet from her throne. The throne room exploded in murmurs as they watched Feyre drop the blade.

Tamlin was healing but… it was too slow. His powers had not returned. The mask remained.

Feyre looked at Tamlin with desperation, and Rhysand could hear her thoughts shooting down the bond. _Kill her now. Kill her now. Kill her now._

That feeling that soared through Rhysand was smothered, replaced with dread.

"She won." Someone called.

"Free them!" A faerie shouted.

Amarantha paled, but her face twisted into a sneer. "I'll free them whenever I see fit. Feyre didn't specify when I had to free them – just that I had to. At some point. Perhaps when you're dead," she smiled cruelly at the couple. "You assumed that when I said instantaneous freedom regarding the riddle, it applied to the trials, too, didn't you? Foolish, stupid human."

Rhysand smothered the growl, struggling to push down the monster that was roaring to escape. That _bitch._ The worst part was that he had seen this coming. He knew about the loophole since that first night Feyre had shown up in the throne room, but he had hoped that Amarantha hadn't noticed.

Of course, she would notice.

She created the whole scenario herself.

She truly doesn't make any deals unless it is adventitious to her.

Feyre looked at Amarantha in undiluted fear, backing away as Amarantha started down the dais towards her. Amarantha's hands were claws at her side, Jurian's eye whirling at the room dizzyingly.

"And you." Amarantha hissed. "You."

She took another sinister step down the dais, her dress smearing on the floor. _"I'm going to kill you."_

Rhysand saw the blow coming. He watched as Amarantha raised a single finger to point at Feyre but he couldn't stop it. He was too slow, too weak without his powers to do more than scream as the Red Queen threw white lightning into Feyre's fragile, human body.

"I'm going to make you pay for your insolence," Amarantha snarled, and her white power flowed from her fingertips into Feyre's prone form.

Feyre let out a scream so keening, so forcefully that Rhysand felt something _snap_ within him. All those instincts he had been fighting since the day he had met her rushed forward in a crescendo that he could no longer deny.

He rushed forward, trying to do something, _anything_ to make her horrible screaming stop. He could feel the agony pushing down the bond, and he watched with horror as Amarantha threw Feyre into the air and slammed her body back down into the marble floor.

Before he could get to her a hand was wrapped around his waist, pulling him back, trapping him.

"Admit you don't really love him, and I'll spare you," Amarantha breathed, prowling closer to where she had thrown her. Rhysand struggled against his bonds, against his captor as she spoke, "Admit what a cowardly, lying, inconstant bit of human garbage you are."

Feyre shook her head, moaning on the floor, trying to get up-

Another flash of white power shone and Feyre was being ripped apart from the inside, her screams unbearable.

" _Feyre!"_ he felt her name roar from his throat, his canines long in his mouth, his hands clawed talons that tore at the arm that held him.

"Stop struggling, you fool," a deep, familiar voice hissed, "You'll get yourself killed." _Helion_.

Rhysand didn't care who held him, he would rip apart the fabric of the world itself to get to her.

Amarantha taunted, "You think you're worthy of him? _A High Lord?_ You think you deserve anything at all, human?"

Feyre's back arched off the ground as she screamed, her face red and wet from her tears as they leaked down her face.

 _Crack. Crack. Crack._

He heard and _felt_ the snapping of her ribs as Amarantha ripped her apart.

Rhysand howled and yelled out again, "Feyre!" He could feel everything she felt, he could feel her fading back into herself as Amarantha tortured her. Every inch of being told him _get to her, get to her, get to her._

Feyre passed out, but Amarantha used her power to force her back into consciousness. Rhysand kicked desperately against Helion's grasp.

Tamlin was still kneeling uselessly, just feet from where Amarantha stood. He stared at Feyre in horror but remained silent. The ash dagger that Feyre used to stab him lay glistening at his feet.

"What are you but mud and bones and worm meat?" She sneered. "What are you, compared to our kind, that you think you're worthy of us?"

There was shouting, but all Rhysand could hear was roaring in his ears and her screams and the beating of her fragile heart in her chest.

With a desperate roar, he swung his elbow back, hitting Helion in the jaw. He was released, and then he was sprinting to Tamlin's side, his eyes on that gleaming dagger.

"You are all pigs – all scheming, filthy pigs."

Feyre sobbed, punctured by screaming as Amarantha kicked her broken ribs, over and over and over. Rhysand felt every blow as he crouched by Tamlin's side.

As he scooped up the bloody dagger, his eyes met Feyre's if only for a moment. And then he knew. _He knew._

She was the answer to everything. The beginning and the end of it all, the thing that he had waited his entire existence to be blessed with. She was his mate, and he had denied it for so long, a _human_ can't be mates with a faerie, but she was. She was his, she was made for him just as he was made for her. Feyre was the answer and the question and the reason for his own damn existance.

Feyre was his mate, and she was in love with his enemy and she had destroyed herself to save him.

She was his _mate._

Rhysand knew then that he didn't care. He didn't care that she loved someone else, he didn't care that she hated him, and he had destroyed her just as much as she had destroyed herself.

If Feyre was going to die, there was no way he was not going with her. He was going to fight for her until they both were falling into oblivion.

And then he launched himself at Amarantha's throat, every step, every heartbeat echoing an undeniable truth: _Feyre was his mate, his mate, his mate_.

"Your mortal heart is nothing to us." Amarantha hissed, lifting a hand to blast him back with a wall of white light without turning her gaze away from Feyre.

Rhysand hit the ground, using his training to twist his body so he was instantly on his feet again. When he caught his balance, he lunged at her with undiluted fury, his taloned hands slashing as he rushed to break through the white wall of power she created to shield herself.

He could feel Feyre's eyes on him as he tried to kill Amarantha, a creature of talons and wings and fury.

"You traitorous piece of filth," Amarantha snapped annoyed now, turning her dark eyes on him. "You're just as bad as these human beasts."

And then she was sucking his powers away, leaving him emptier than he had ever been before. His wards failed, cracking in the back of his head. He felt his power wane as his control over thousands of minds faltered. He swore as he continued to fight against her shield, his talons pushing back underneath his skin.

Rhysand ignored the pull. He did not need talons or powers in his attempts to kill her. Feyre was his mate. His mate. He would not let her die alone. His court could be ruled by his Dreamers. He didn't care anymore. It wouldn't matter in a world in which Feyre didn't exist.

"You were planning this all along." Amarantha seethed, whipping him with a lash of her magic. He went sprawling, no powers answering to his call. He landed feet away and before he could catch his breath, another lash of her wind crushed into him.

Rhysand saw stars as his head cracked against the firm marble. He had to get to her. Every inch of him screamed even as Amarantha hit him. _Get to her, get to her, get to her._

She struck him again, and this time he felt the marble itself crack as his body slammed into it. His head spun, and he struggled to stay conscious. He heard a groan in his ears, and it was a moment before he realized it was his own.

"Stop." A voice called, high and weak and beautiful. "Please."

Rhys turned, trying to get back up, even as the edges of the world threatened to pull him down. He had to see her. He felt the blood dribbling down his lips from his nose and then he met her eyes with his own.

Her starlight eyes, clear despite the pain, stared into his own. He felt everything in him melt, and through the pain he felt like he was meant to be there. If she could just keep looking at him, it would be enough.

He pulled at the bond between them, strengthening it, curious now. He pulled too hard and he nearly stumbled back as she flashed into his own mind, into his body, seeing herself through his own eyes.

He threw her back into her body just as Amarantha turned on her. "Stop? Stop? Don't pretend you care, human." Amarantha curled a single finger, and Rhysand struggled to get to her against Amarantha's magical bonds as Feyre shrieked again, her back straining with Amarantha's power.

He knew he was yelling her name as Feyre tried to keep a hold on reality, not caring who heard him.

As she screamed and he struggled, he watched with horror as her memories started to shimmer past her mind, down their bond. She sobbed in between screams, and Rhysand felt horror like he had never felt before as he watched her memories. He was watching the storybook of her life.

"Say that you don't love him!" Amarantha shrieked back now, her voice full of madness.

Rhysand tried to focus as Tamlin approached, crawling from where he had been kneeling, his chest still bleeding and broken.

"Amarantha, stop this." Tamlin begged at her feet now. It wouldn't make a difference. Amarantha didn't care about begging, not when it came to this. She didn't care for anyone; she just wanted and took what she wanted without consequence. "Stop. I'm sorry – I'm sorry for what I said about Clythia all those years ago. Please."

Rhysand howled again as Amarantha ignored Tamlin and howled in jealousy and pain as Feyre stared into Tamlin's eyes. Tamlin who had led her to her doom. Tamlin who'd only moved to save her by begging when it much too late.

He saw her memory as she screamed again, a memory of laying in the grass with Tamlin beneath Spring Court skies, just as Rhys had done with Tamlin all those years ago.

"Say that you don't truly love him," Amarantha spat, twisting Feyre's body into impossible angles. "Admit to your inconstant heart."

Tamlin moaned, begging, "Amarantha, please. I'll do anything."

Amarantha snarled at him, and snapped, "I'll deal with you later."

As Rhysand watched her scream, useless and powerless as he was, he heard the repeat of Amarantha's riddle in Feyre's mind.

 _For though each of my strikes lands a powerful blow, when I kill, I do it slow…_

Her love of Tamlin had been a slow, horrible death. It had led her to this torture.

 _But scorned, I become a difficult beast to defeat_.

The love Rhysand felt her now would never be destroyed. Even after she was gone, he would love the girl who never loved him back.

He felt the darkness creeping over the edge of her thoughts, felt that flame that glowed at the end of the bond dim.

 _But I bless all those who are brave enough to dare._

Feyre knew the answer now, to the riddle that faerie children knew before their twentieth year.

 _Answer the riddle, Feyre. Please. Free him, save yourself. Save us both._ Tears were streaming down his face now, uncontrolled.

"Say it, you vile beast." Amarantha hissed, reigniting her torture.

Feyre coughed, spraying clotted blood across her face, down her chin. She looked at Tamlin where he had begged uselessly for her life.

"Love." Feyre breathed, her eyes closing slowly as she spoke. "The answer to the riddle …" She choked, "is … love." Rhysand felt the light of her life flicker as she crumbled into the nothingness.

Tamlin's eyes went wide, his power surging.

 _Crack._

Rhysand gasped, unable to scream. Feyre's neck was twisted in an impossible direction. Her flame, that beautiful gift from the Cauldron, flickered out. And he was pulling on the bond, desperate, but it was like pulling a snapped rope, the weight at the end of the bond long gone.

Her body was so pale, her eyes closed, her lips covered in her blood. And she was so still.

And when he listened for the only sound that mattered, he heard nothing. Her heart was silent.

Feyre was dead.

His mate was dead.

* * *

My heart. Poor Rhys.

Leave me some love :)


	21. Echo of Amarantha

Well, guys. This is it. The moment we've been waiting for.

The finale.

It's been a journey, it's been a little less than a year since I started this story.

I never thought I would get so much enjoyment out of writing fan fiction, writing a story based off the story of someone else but... it made me feel good.

Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me this far.

Thank you for taking the opportunity to hear Rhys's story.

And stick around... I plan on finishing Rhysand and Feyre's story at least into ACOMAF, but likely not under this story title.

Much love,

TurtleSteed

* * *

 _Crack._

 _Crack._

 _Crack._

He heard it over and over again in his head, the echo of her death shattering his eardrums.

Gone. She was gone.

 _Feyre._

Rhysand couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, the only thing he could do was stare down at Feyre's body, her head snapped to one side in an angle that should be possible. Her golden hair was a red streaked crown around her head, her blue-grey eyes staring off into nothingness.

He was gripping that bond in hand, that bond he had thought was created from that bargain he used to save her. It felt different now, so light like it was nothing at all. He realized now that the bargain had been nothing, cobwebs compared to that shining bond between them.

She had given it all for him, for them. She knew sacrifice as he knew it, she knew how broken and dark and twisted he was on the inside.

Desperate, he clutched that bond with every ounce of his daemati power, pulling on the string that no longer connected to her body. He tugged it into him, pulling until the bond was as solid in his mental claws as the marble was beneath his feet.

He clutched it, staring as Amarantha's face slackened while she looked down at the broken human girl in horror. They had all felt that power surge, they had all felt the change in the eddies of fate from the moment that word had left her lips.

 _Love._

He _felt her_ then. He felt Feyre in his mind.

She was there. She was there. She was looking through his own eyes, and because he felt her in his mind, he clutched that bond even tighter. _Just stay here. Just hold on. Please. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on._

Something surged deep in Rhysand's chest stronger than any bond, any rage, any fear: Hope. If she could hold on, if he could hold her here, all seven High Lord's stood in the same room. They all stood to witness her sacrifice, they had all witnessed her torture, her unwinding.

They could bring her back.

Every broken inch of Rhysand, every ounce of power that sat in that now nearly empty well, held onto the that bond. Feyre flickered, watching. Different than she had once felt at the end of that binding, and yet that flame screamed of _herness._

And if those stubborn bastards refused to give a droplet of power to save the human girl who had given the ultimate sacrifice for them, Rhysand would make them save her.

He didn't care if he had to claw into each mind of their minds and make them do it.

He stood, feeling Feyre in his mind as they watched the room pass into madness.

Lucien had approached the scene from the back of the crowd, looking down at Feyre's body with gleaming eyes.

Tamlin stared at Feyre's body, his face slack as well, pale and unbelieving.

Amarantha was backing away slowly as she looked down at Feyre's broken body.

 _Love._ She had freed Tamlin with her last words. Her last gift to the world.

Lucien reached his hand up and removed the fox mask that had been glued to his face for nearly fifty years. His face was still handsome beneath the scars, his face sharp and angular.

Tamlin turned away from Feyre then, looking at Amarantha with feral rage, his face twisting into something wolfish. His fangs lengthened; his lips spread in snarl.

Satisfaction echoed deep down in Rhysand's chest as Amarantha stared at him with those pitiless dark eyes and whispered, "Please."

The room exploded in a flash of golden light.

Feyre echoed her own satisfaction down the bond from where she flickered.

Thrown into the air by the golden light, Amarantha was tossed like a rag doll, her back smashing into the wall.

Tamlin roared, a sound that rang throughout the entirety of the mountain. Then he launched himself at her, shifting into that beast that sat just below his skin, a blur of fur and flaws and fury.

He was on her before she had a moment to slide down the wall, gripping her by the neck.

Her blood slid down her neck from where his claws bit into her, her dark eyes panicked.

Tamlin shoved her head into the wall with enough force that the stones cracked. She thrashed against his hold, but she was useless against the power of a High Lord. She scratched, her clawed fingernails leaving trails of red in Tamlin's fur, but he just roared in her face.

Rhysand tried to lunge at the Attor as he saw a grey blur, trying to save his mistress, but Amarantha's bonds kept him tied. Thankfully, a few of Amarantha's own Hybern court and newly freed Spring Court members jumped in his path, tackling both him and guards down with them.

Amarantha screeched, kicking Tamlin, fighting him with every inch of strength she contained. Her white light tried to knock him down, searing against him but Tamlin's golden shield held strong.

Lucien lunged, gripping a sword from a sheath at a fallen red-skin guards' side.

"Tam!" Lucien cried as he tossed the sword in Tamlin's direction.

Tamlin didn't even turn as he reached out a clawed paw, gripping the sword and turning towards the Red Queen.

Amarantha let out a singular scream which stopped short as Tamlin drove the sword through her skull, pinning it to the stone beneath.

Then, with a growl, he shut his jaws around her throat and ripped, her blood spilling from her neck in a shower.

A beat passed.

It was over.

It was over.

She was dead.

He felt a rush as his power pushed back into his well all at once, so strong and true that it knocked the breath from him.

It was over.

Rhysand gripped the mountain of power that was _finally_ back in his claws, wrapping every inch of his power over minds, over the night, over darkness, over love around that flickering soul that rested in his head.

Tamlin turned, ignoring every person who had their eyes trained on him. His eyes only looked at the corpse of the human girl before them all.

Another flash of light, and Tamlin had shoved the beast deep down, and devastation had replaced the fury. Amarantha's blood was gone from his hands, his face and Tamlin slammed to his knees before the human girl they had all failed to save.

Rhysand froze as Tamlin scooped up her limp body, cradling her to his chest. He held the flickering soul in his mind even tighter. Tamlin was sobbing, tears sliding past the green mask he hadn't bothered to remove, his shuddering sobs echoing around the silent room as he rocked her limp body, stroking her golden hair like she was the most precious treasure in the world.

Rhysand fell to his knees, not even feeling the pain as they were cut against the broken marble. He was strong and yet so weak. Then, he started.

Beron. Kallias. Tarquin. Helion. Thesan.

He connected his mind with Beron first, starting with who he thought would be hardest to convince. He avoided his claws, just pressing his mind against the against the thin wall surrounding Beron's mind.

His thoughts were simple, to the point. He shot an image of Feyre, alive and well at Tamlin's side. He showed Beron an image of each of them pressing their glittering sparks of life to her pale chest. Feeling Beron recoil, he thought softly _'For what she gave.'_

Beron didn't answer, but he felt the acceptance across the barrier.

Lucien stepped forward to stand at Tamlin's side. "No," he whispered, reaching a hand out to touch Feyre's hair as well. Tamlin's tears were falling onto her face, smearing the blood from her lips.

When Beron slowly began to approach the couple, Rhysand moved on to the next.

Kallias, his mind cold and surrounded by ice. _For what she gave._

Tarquin, his mind swelling like the ocean waves. _For what she gave._

Helion, his friend, the only one who might understand him. _For what she gave._

Thesan, his walls burning against Rhysand as he showed the same images he had shown the others. _For what she gave._

One by one, they stepped forward. Lucien had stiffened as his father approached Feyre, but when Tamlin glanced up to look at the oldest of them, Lucien's eyes had softened. Beron extended a hand, a glittering spark of light shining in his fingers.

Beron looked Tamlin in the eye as he tipped his hand over, and the spark flared as it brushed against Feyre's chest.

With that spark, Rhysand felt Feyre's soul flare, burning brighter than before. He could not hear her thoughts, but he could feel her emotions as more than just a ghost of a feeling.

Next came Tarquin, his face once again sun-kissed and ocean eyes glowing. Kallias stood at his side. He had already recreated his crown of ice, and it glimmered against his pale hair. They stood before Tamlin, donating their embers of life from each of their hands. Tarquin's was a glowing blue, and Kallias's ember of life fell like a snowflake to her chest.

Tamlin managed to bow his head in gratitude this time.

Next came Thesan, glowing brightly as he let his power shine through. Then Helion, his dark skin gleaming like the sun itself. Thesan's glowing ruby ember joined the other three, and as Helion's fell to Feyre's lifeless form, he smiled down at Tamlin in a heartbreaking way.

When he turned to walk away from Tamlin, he caught his golden eyes with Rhysand's own. Rhysand let his devastation shine through for a moment as he received a sad smile of his own from his old friend.

The silence settled, and Rhysand struggled to his feet. He knew it was his turn, they had already donated, and his heart pounded with a desperation.

He walked forward, slowly, each step aching and heavy. He felt Feyre flickering brightly now on the other end of the mating bond.

Tamlin turned his green eyes to stare at him, and Rhysand struggled to contain his tears.

He held his hand in front of him, pushing an ember of his own life into his hand. His ember glowed bright silver, like starlight.

He reached his hand over Feyre, wanted to press it to her chest himself. "For what she gave," he spoke, his voice shaking, "we'll bestow what our predecessors have granted to few before."

Before he let his ember of life fall to her chest, he met Tamlin's eyes with his own. "This makes us even," he added to his speech, dark humor shining through as he realized this was it.

He had done it. She was going to live.

He let his ember fall to her chest to join the others.

Tamlin nodded at him, and Rhysand wondered if he saw the dried tears on his face, mixed with the blood.

Then he turned away from Rhys, looking down at Feyre in his arms. He brushed her hair away from her face, letting an ember of light pool in the center of his other hand.

Then, he leaned down, just inches from her face.

"I love you," he whispered, and kissed Feyre just as he pressed his hand against her heart.

Rhysand had never felt so thankful that another man was kissing his mate. He suspected he probably never would again.

Rhysand stumbled back as a flash of blinding light shown from where Tamlin's hand connected with her chest, and he reeled in panic as he felt the unraveling of that bond in his mind, he felt as she was _pulled_ back into her body by magic older than time itself.

She was pulled and pulled, and then it was like she was pulling _him_ from his own body, but then-

The bond snapped tight, holding them together in something that could never be broken by magic such as this-

Feyre gasped.

Rhysand stumbled back again.

She was alive.

He heard her heart thumping her chest, he saw the glow of her skin, he _felt_ her awe on the other end of the bond.

Then she opened her eyes.

Gasps were exploding throughout the room around them.

Rhysand almost jumped out of his skin as a hand pressed into his shoulder. He shifted his gaze away from her for a moment, to meet eyes with Helion.

He felt oddly steadied.

Feyre groaned, sitting up from where Tamlin held her against his chest. As she sat up, she moved away from the masked man who held her, and Rhysand could see her properly.

She was glowing. Every inch of skin glowed with immortal light, any tiny imperfection gone. Her scars had been wiped away with the power. Feyre looked at her hands with a mixture of horror and awe, and as she lifted them in front of her face, Rhysand noticed her fingers were longer. Fae.

She pushed to her feet, somewhat clumsily, and Rhysand could see her face.

Her face gleamed with immortal beauty, her golden-brown hair shining like it had been polished, it was again clean and fell in soft curls down her back. And when her eyes turned to Tamlin, Rhysand was struck with lightning.

God, they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, something he had thought the first time he saw her but now… now, Feyre was radiant.

She was a goddess.

She was High Fae.

As Tamlin looked down at her, his green eyes sparkled with tears. She looked up at him, and he watched as Feyre froze under the pressure of his gaze.

His stomach turned.

His instincts screamed.

He turned suddenly, the panic overflowing. The walls were closing in on him, and the whispers of the faeries around him sounded more like screams.

Helion gripped his shoulder tightly, and spoke quietly, "You should leave… there will be a reckoning any moment."

Rhysand nodded numbly, trying to take a deep breath but it wouldn't come, "I can't-… I have to…"

He shot off like a bullet for the exit, and as sprinted down the halls of the mountain. His power pushed him faster than he had run in fifty years.

And when he reached the end of the hallway, he winnowed to the grasslands on the side of the mountain.

Amarantha was dead.

The Red Queen, the bitch, the Lady of the Mountain… his captor, his lover, his bane.

Dead. She was dead.

He was free.

His court was free.

He fell to his knees in the green grass of a meadow, feeling the sun against his back for the first time since he had fetched Tamlin for his sentence under the mountain.

He gripped the grass beneath him, unleashing the wings behind his back and let them fan out behind him. He felt the wind brushing against the delicate membrane, felt the pull of his muscles as they tried to hold him up.

He roared, a sound full of the anger and sadness and joy that fought inside of him. And when he could no longer roar, he fell forward, his face on his hands, the scent of soil and life in his nose.

He wept.

He wept for all he had done. He wept for all he had lost. He wept for what he had found, and what he had become.

He wept because he had found his mate.

But most of all, he wept at the impossibility of eternity stretching out in front of him.

* * *

Rhysand lay in that grassy field for much longer than he cared to admit. Eventually, the tears ran dry, the swelling on his face started to disappear and the sky started turning dark as the day turned into afternoon and afternoon to evening.

The sun felt so good, and his skin felt raw in a wonderful way. He wondered if his few hours laying in the grass had already started to erase the mark the mountain had left on him.

But, as the first stars began to appear in the sky, he sighed, pulling himself to his feet.

Home. He wanted to go home.

The pang of longing, of loneliness struck a chord in his chest, but not yet.

Feyre was alive. He couldn't believe it, couldn't stop thinking about the bright glow of her blue-grey eyes in that cursed throne room.

He couldn't stop thinking of the way she had looked at Tamlin after she had freed them all. In a way that he had hoped she would look at him.

Rhysand looked up into the growing twilight, stretching his wings out behind him. Really, he didn't give too shits about revealing them to the world right now.

This was the first time he felt anything like himself in decades.

He glanced from the open sky, back to the barren wasteland that had once been sacred to them all.

Perhaps he could just fly for a few minutes. Then he could deal with the rest of the world.

Then he could find out if Feyre was okay. He could make sure that the world was starting to realign itself back into order.

And then he could go home.

He stretched out his great wings behind him, his muscles straining much more than he liked to admit. Cassian was going to wreck him when he returned.

A smile crossed his lips as he jumped, shooting himself into the air with a powerful flap. Cassian. Azriel. Mor. Amren. He would be seeing them soon.

* * *

He flew most of the night. Rhysand wanted to cry as he tasted the night sky for the first time in years, his wings above him, his back screaming, the stars his friends above him.

The wind smelled like freedom. The breeze whispered sweet nothings into his ears.

He landed on a balcony, one he had not noticed before, near the top of the mountain, on the opposite side of Amarantha's court. The sun was already starting to rise, chasing his night sky away.

His stomach growling so he kissed his night sky farewell and then headed into the mountain in search of food.

Rhysand made himself invisible as he headed down the halls, unsure what would be waiting him. The halls were mostly empty, the only bustling coming from servants who were emptying rooms, and a few shady figures who looked like they were pilfering whatever they could.

He had just reached familiar territory when he felt the brush of familiar minds again his own, dark and enticing.

Rhysand smiled to himself, aware no one could see his smile in his shadows.

 _Wraiths._

A moment walked by.

 _High Lord._ Two minds, thinking against his antechamber as one.

Rhysand sniffed, finally smelling some source of food and quickly headed in that direction.

 _Can you tell Mor to meet me at the Moonstone Palace? I want to talk to her before I talk to the others. I won't be there for a few hours yet. I'll meet her in the main greeting room._

Nuala sounded her wordless acknowledgment.

 _We have already sent your clothing back to the townhouse. We left the rest._

Rhysand felt his heart squeeze. He would never have to return to that dreaded room, he would never have to sleep under this mountain again.

 _Thank you. For everything. Your High Lord will never forget your service to your Court._

They hummed in his mind, pleased with his response and brushed out of the antechamber of his mind.

Rhysand stuffed some eggs in his mouth from a plate he stole from the back of the kitchen, looking around the room at the faeries who were animated, happier than he had seen in years.

He had forgotten what it was like to be around people who weren't drowning in their misery.

After he had eaten his fill on the best tasting breakfast in his entire existence, he tried ignoring the guilt that threatened to ruin his good mood. These people hadn't destroyed themselves to escape. They hadn't killed countless of people under the command of the bitch. They deserved to be happy.

His happiness faded into something sickening, and he suddenly wished he hadn't eaten quite so much.

Feeling a pang of sadness shoot down the bond that still connected him and Feyre, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning on the back wall of the room. He pressed his fingers to the tattoo that marked their bargain to discover the melodic sounds of her sleeping thoughts. Even now, she dreamed of Amarantha strangling her. She dreamed of the faces of the faeries she murdered during her last trial.

The nightmares had started already.

Rhysand swallowed hard, pushing back out of her mind and went back to watching the room.

It seemed that Amarantha's cronies had disappeared the moment she died, the Attor and his ilk included. Even those of Amarantha's Hybern court had disappeared after their betrayal of her at the end, back to Hybern or just to run, Rhysand didn't know.

The faerie that remained were members of various courts, trying to gather their things and be on their way.

He didn't saw a single High Lord yet, but he knew that at least some would have remained Under the Mountain to make sure this place was destroyed and that there would be no civil war.

He enjoyed the fact that he hadn't noticed a single thought about him in any mind. They hadn't wondered where he ran off too, they hadn't assumed that he ran to join Hybern. They just had forgotten about him.

It was nice in a way. To be forgettable for once.

* * *

Rhysand waited as long as he could. He really did.

But Velaris was calling him, and Mor was waiting on him and that beast in his chest demanded that he see her before he went home.

He had to see if she was all right. It was stupid really, of course she wasn't alright but… he had to see her.

He couldn't explain it away more than that. Maybe he wanted to see if the mating bond was something from his imagination, maybe he just wanted to see her eyes look at him.

Part of him denied it, but he knew he had to let her out of that bargain with him.

She deserved to be happy, more than anyone, and their bargain stood in the way of her happiness.

It was the early afternoon, and Mor was probably more than irritated at him for waking her up early and then not arriving until the afternoon. Feyre was still sleeping, if her scattered thoughts down the bond were any indication, so when he could wait no longer he pulled on that bond. Calling, they called it. Daemati could do it to about anyone, a tug on someone's consciousness that could not be ignored. But it existed between mates as well. He wondered which part he was using at that moment.

He felt as she roused to his calling and exited her mind just as quickly as he had entered it. He hadn't drawn out fast enough to avoid seeing Tamlin laying facedown in the bed, covered in nothing but a blanket over his ass.

He swallowed his jealousy, turning to look out over the stone railing while he waited.

She didn't leave him waiting long, and he turned to face the doorway connecting the stairs and the balcony when he heard her approach. Feyre walked slowly, clumsily like a newborn calf, unsure of her new body and muscles.

Her hair was still mused from sleep and mother knows what else, but she had on a black tunic that suited her well. She was still too pale, and too thin even with the new muscles and glowing skin. Her eyes squinted and she hissed, covering her eyes as the sunlight blinded her.

Rhysand laughed quietly, her beauty taking every word he intended on telling her out of his mouth.

"I forgot that it's been a while for you." Perhaps he could have picked a better location, but it pleased him in some small way that he was the one who was with her when the sky got to meet the Cauldron's newest creation.

Feyre blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the light, though she wiped a few tears away as her eyes burned. She didn't answer him, but when she could hold her eyes open without them filling with tears, she left the doorway to stand next to him. She looked out over the land of snowcapped mountains; a mockery compared the Night Court.

Rhysand just watched her, for once a man without words.

She looked at him finally, her starlight eyes brighter than ever before. Feyre examined the wings out behind him in the open now, glancing subtly at his hands to check for talons. She still didn't realize that the wings were from more than that beast that settled inside of him, deep under lock.

"What do you want?" Her voice came out forced, like she meant for it to be snippy, but it just came out as sad. The bite was lost from her words, like Amarantha had taken that from her too.

As she stared at him, he saw the images of him screaming, blood dripping down his nose as he tried to get to her while Amarantha tortured her, reflecting down the bond.

"Just to say good-bye," his voice came out soft. Feyre's eyes caught as his darkness spread in the soft breeze around him, his eyes catching on her golden-brown curls as they flew around her head. "Before your beloved whisks you away forever."

"Not forever," she said, her voice cold now. She wiggled her tattooed fingers in front of his face. "Don't you get a week every month?"

Rhys gave her a small smile as the fire he had grown to cherish flared back up in those eyes. He should let her go now. Let her be free of that bargain, let her go off with the male she loved without worrying about the most hated High Lord's bargain. Let her be happy.

But he didn't, he couldn't, so he just rustled his wings and murmured, "How could I forget?" Shame, shame on him.

What did it matter if he was the cruel bastard they expected him to be?

Feyre was quiet for a moment, her eyes settling on his wings. She seemed fascinated by them, but then her eyes settled on his face. She stripped him bare, just as she had done the first time they had met on Fire Night. She settled on his nose, and the image of his bleeding nose trembled down the bond. The image of him screaming, the image of him running at Amarantha with taloned claws.

"Why?" she finally asked, her voice a whisper.

He knew what she was asking.

He wanted to tell her then, that she was his mate and that he was made for her and to protect her and to love her… but that would be cruel, to thrust that knowledge on her now, and she wouldn't believe him if he told her about everything he sacrificed. If he told her about his court, about his friends, about all the terrible things he had done.

But again, he said none of those things. He shrugged and spoke hoarsely, "Because when the legends get written, I didn't want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines. I want my future offspring to know that I was there, and that I fought against her at the end, even if I couldn't do anything useful."

Feyre blinked, and he swore he felt a glimmer of the misery and loneliness that mirrored his own down that bond.

They would never be the same, never be whole.

He caught her eye, and said, "Because I didn't want you to fight alone. Or die alone."

The image of that same blue-skinned faerie from before shot down the bond. Rhysand wondered, not the first time, who he was exactly.

"Thank you," Feyre spoke simply, her voice strained.

Rhysand gave her a quick grin wanting to tease her, to drawl out that burning girl again, "I doubt you'll be saying that when I take you to the Night Court."

Feyre just turned her gaze away from him, no flicker of annoyance down that bond. No flicker of anything really. She just looked out over the mountains, a strange expression on her face. Longing maybe.

Rhysand wondered if subconsciously she wanted to fly, if she felt that same calling that he did.

After a moment, she finally spoke, the wind whipping her hair around her, "Are you going to fly home?"

Rhysand cocked his head wondering if she heard his thoughts, but opted for a soft laugh, "Unfortunately, it would take longer than I can afford. Another day, I'll taste the skies again." He didn't think his back could take a flight that long as well, not after he spent the entirety of the night flying the skies around them. His back burned, even now, but he was trying to build back his strength.

Feyre turned back at him, again, examining his wings and the longing was unmistakable on her face now. His heart pounded, but he knew the longing was not for him. "You never told me you loved the wings – or the flying." Her voice was hoarse, accusatory.

Rhysand shrugged, her eyes making it impossible to look away from her. "Everything I love has always has a tendency to be taken from me. I tell very few about the wings. Or the flying." All Amarantha had ever had to do to make him a willing subject was take his wings. He may resent them at times, a symbol of his lesserness, of his impure blood, but they were his. They allowed him to answer the call of the wind and were a permanent marker of his mother.

Feyre was tracing his face with her own eyes, and Rhysand wondered what she saw. He did not intrude, but a thought thundered down the bond.

 _A High lord who loved to fly – trapped under a mountain._

Rhys felt a sharp sting and examined her own face in as she looked at his. Her facial structure was much the same, she still had that perky nose, pink lips and high cheekbones. Her hair was perhaps a bit thicker, shinier, and as the wind blew her hair, it revealed the slightly pointed tips of her ears. High Fae.

Her ears were even more tipped than his own, she was now a better breed of faerie than him.

"How does it feel to be a High Fae?" he spoke quietly, afraid if he spoke too loudly she would run away.

Feyre turned away from him then, the spell broken. After consideration, she spoke, "I'm an immortal – who has been mortal. This body …" she looked down at her clean hands, and Rhysand saw the flash of blood on her hands just he saw the blood on his own. "This body is different but this," she gestured to her chest where Rhysand had watched his ember of life settle just yesterday, "this is still human. Maybe it always will be. But it would have been easier to live with it …" her voice broke and she paused for a minute before continuing. "Easier to live with what I did if my heart had changed, too. Maybe I wouldn't care so much; maybe I could convince myself their deaths weren't in vain. Maybe immortality will take that away. I can't tell whether I want it to."

Rhysand stared at her, her pain and sadness and guilt reflecting from his own soul into her own. She had given it all for them, given her life but in the process had taken two others. Rhysand knew how she felt, he knew she felt like she would never be happy again. She felt like even if she did become happy again that she wouldn't deserve it.

She wasn't sure she even deserved the quiet peace of death, or if her suffering was punishment for what she had done.

Rhysand ached. After a moment he spoke, "Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don't feel anything at all."

Like Rhysand, who hadn't felt a thing in decades until Feyre had shattered into his world. Until Feyre had given him something to fight for.

Feyre just nodded at him, but they both felt the gapping holes in their soul, bare to the world. Her face was tight.

He gave her one last long glance, willing himself to find the strength to leave her here with Tamlin.

"Well, good-bye for now," he said, rolling his neck from side to side as he tried to shake her sadness from him. He tried to shake the naked feeling he always had when she was around him.

Rhysand bowed at the waist, bowing to his queen and pushed his wings into the in between. His greeting room in his father's palace hadn't been built for those wings.

He started to fade between the worlds, pulling the shadows with him when suddenly the wind changed.

It blew her scent directly into his face, and as her blue-grey eyes stared into his he felt the deep pull of their bond. The mating bond _snapped_ , snapping into place in a permanent and undeniable way. She smelled so good, like pear and lilac and night and female. She smelled like home, like everything he had ever enjoyed. The beat of her heart in her chest was a melody, a quiet thumping that answered every question he had ever had about fate.

She was the answering to everything, the beginning and ending and everything in between.

She was his mate, she was made to be his just as he was made to be hers.

She was his.

It was like the bond had pushed him off an edge and he was falling.

He felt himself go rigid, his nostrils flaring as that delectable scent intertwined with his own. When he took another shaking breath, he could smell his own mist and night and jasmine scent mixing with her own.

The confused look on her face commanded him, commanded him to take her away from here, away from Tamlin.

Every particle in his body screamed for her. It demanded that he damn the consequences and bring her with him. Rhysand felt panic rising as he tried to resist.

He stumbled back away from her.

"What is-" Feyre began, her face concerned and confused.

He wrapped the world around him, winnowing directly into the greeting room of his father's palace, shock and panic whirling around him.

He felt his feet hit the floor beneath him, the hard, pale stone of the entry way glowing in the sunlight that streamed from open air windows. He had left her, he had done it, and he was in the night court.

Why couldn't he breathe?

"Rhys!" a female voice called from the doorway.

He turned. Mor. His cousin.

His only living family. She was just as beautiful as she had been the day he left, a vision of golden curls and plump lips but her hazel eyes were strained.

She wore fighting leathers, a sword as her hip. Her eyes were wide in fear, in worry.

Rare for her. She must not have known what to expect.

Mor ran forward, grabbing his hand in her own and was about to wrap him in a hug but then, he spoke, staring at her with wide eyes.

"She's my mate." The words stumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Mor stopped in her tracks, staring at him with her mouth open.

The wind blew in from the open window, pushing the sheer curtains and brushing across his face. It was warm, the spells his ancestors had used to charm out the cold holding strong.

Mor dropped his hand, and raised a finger, poking it into his chest with a golden nail, "I swear, boy, if you tell me after fifty years of this shit that that fucking _cunt_ Amarantha is your _mate-_ " she started.

"No. Feyre." Rhysand gasped out, his chest still impossibly tight. He could feel her, even now, hundreds of miles away. His hands were loose at his side as his mind reeled from the shock of the bond, from the powerful surge as it snapped into place permanently.

"Her name is Feyre."

* * *

ACOSAP has been finished ya'll.

If you haven't already, please leave a comment. I wait every time I post a new chapter anxiously to hear what you guys think.

And again, stick around, I plan on writing into ACOMAF! I'll update this story when the first chapter is posted.

Thank you, again, so very much for loving me and loving Rhys.

And lastly, thank you Sarah for this amazing story you gave us, the characters that have been keeping me up for more than two years now. I thought I would never find anything that made me feel like I did after I read Harry Potter, but I found something that made me feel even better.

Love,

Amanda (TurtleSteed)


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